A Fickle Thing
by Ista
Summary: A collection of one-shot hurt/comfort ficlets involving a man and his best friend, a crimson cloak. Delightful fluff abounds!
1. Sleeplessness

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Summary:** A collection of short one-shot hurt/comfort fics involving a man and his best friend, a crimson cloak.

 **A/N:** Soooo I just saw the movie a couple days ago and then I went home and this happened. I'm not even sure what this is….

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Dr. Strange_ or _Marvel…_ Darn.

 **Chapter 1: Sleeplessness**

There is a special place in Dr. Strange's Sanctum Sanctorum for his cloak. It wouldn't do to have the great Cloak of Levitation temporarily hung in the gallery like some ancient relic collecting dust. Especially when Strange needs the cloak on a regular basis.

Dr. Strange is an expert on taking good care of his things because a part of him still believes that the state of his possessions reflects on the state of his character. He prides himself on his appearance, after all. It wouldn't be right to have the cloak flung haphazardly upon a sedan or draped across an antique curio hutch. Every item in the Sanctum has its place, and the cloak's place (in the increasingly rare moments when Strange is asleep or not working) is in a spacious walk-in closet in his bedchamber.

At first, the cloak wants to protest this arrangement. It is dark and cold and _boring_ inside the closet. But after a few nights, the cloak relaxes into its new space, draping luxuriously across the floorboards or twisting around the hangers for fun, creating a game out of nothing.

On the rare nights when its chosen sleeps soundly, the cloak settles down and succumbs to the muffled rhythm of Stephen Strange's breaths.

It is Harvest Moon. The cloak is in its closet, making a sport out of seeing how far it can physically stretch from one corner of the storage space to the other, delicately flexing its fabricated muscles, the burgundy cloth rippling playfully. Then it suddenly stops.

There are faint moans coming from Dr. Strange's bedchamber.

Curious, the cloak carefully bunches itself up to push the sliding closet door open and hangs in the air, silent, watching.

Its chosen is tossing and turning in his bed. His dark hair is tousled, one side curled up. The covers lay in a tangled mess at his bare feet. He groans, lips twisted into a grimace.

Is it a nightmare? The cloak hovers closer then spies the beam of bright moonlight shining onto Stephen Strange's face. The man's eyes open, half-lidded. He hums again and turns over, throwing a limp hand over his eyes.

It's the light. The light is keeping him awake.

So the cloak goes to the curtainless window and spreads itself against the glass, its thick red cloth sliding across the smooth surface, blocking the blinding moonlight and throwing Strange's bedchamber back into its natural nocturnal darkness.

There is silence for a time as the cloak observes its chosen for any signs of relief.

Stephen murmurs something unintelligible. Then he sighs softly. It is a contented sigh.

The cloak stays perfectly still in this exact position for another six more hours, uncomfortable but satisfied that Strange no longer fidgets in his sleep. His breathing is deep and steady. There's even an occasional snore.

When the first rays of morning hit the cloak, it shudders stiffly and tries to tug itself free. When its right corner refuses to budge, it undulates with greater force, snagging itself on a nail in the wall.

A few feet away, Dr. Strange shifts in his bed. The cloak soundlessly floats back to the closet, sliding the door shut as quietly as it can and placing itself back on one of the plastic hangars inside.

It doesn't witness Stephen Strange wake up. It doesn't see him walk to the same window it had covered the night before and run his hands along its frame with bemusement. It doesn't see him pluck a few strands of crimson fabric from the jagged nail in the wall, running them across his fingers, lost in thought.

After a full day of meetings, magic, and watching the sun set in Jakarta, they are back in the Sanctum, and Dr. Strange startles the cloak with a jaw-cracking yawn. He unfurls it expertly by swinging it around his shoulders and begins to walk towards the closet… when he halts in his tracks.

The cloak quivers in his grasp, uncertain what its chosen is going to do. It is unprepared for what happens next.

Rather than hanging it up in the closet like he has done for the past several months, Dr. Strange places it gently in an upholstered chair beside his bed.

"More room out here," Strange mutters, so low that the cloak almost misses it.

Without another word, Strange goes through his evening routines. The cloak trembles with satisfaction, observing the human as he settles into bed, propping himself up with a pillow to read for an hour before his eyes begin to droop. Then he places the book on his bedside table, removes his wristwatch, and closes his eyes.

The cloak keeps watch over its chosen that night, awaiting the morning and secretly looking forward to the next full moon…

 **A/N:** What did you all think? Many more one-shots to come! Soooo what do I _call_ the cloak? Is it just "Cloak" or what? I'm a bit confused as to how to refer to this character-that-isn't-a-character. Help?


	2. Bath Time

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 2:** **Bath Time**

"You're worse than a cat."

Dr. Steven Strange is trying to wash his cloak. He has never washed it before. And, obviously, dry-cleaning is out of the question.

He has put this task off for weeks, somehow knowing what a cluster it's going to be. But he's gotten to know the cloak better after permanently moving to the Sanctum Sanctorum. The cloak is more than just a dramatic fashion statement. It has… _feelings._ Strange still can't explain it—the way the cloak somehow _knows_ when he needs help or even what he's thinking.

It's uncanny and weird and Dr. Strange usually doesn't like to think about it. He didn't become a Sorcerer Supreme to ponder the sentience of outdoor overgarments. However, when the cloak's outward appearance began to affect his _own_ , he knew that a confrontation on cleanliness was unavoidable.

The last straw came a few days ago when The Nameless One decided to destroy half of London. And also decided to slobber on Dr. Strange and his cloak. Who knew that dinosaur demons could slobber so much? And when Strange made it back to New York, the _smell_ of the cloak (not to mention its slimy greenish coating) was enough to send Stephen into a tirade.

Timing is essential. Dr. Strange can almost _sense_ that the cloak has an aversion to water. And, being as fastidious as the doctor sometimes, the cloak surely would have cleaned _itself_ by now if it had the desire to do so.

 _It must be afraid of water,_ Strange thinks to himself, calculating his approach. After the battle in London, both cloak and its chosen are retiring back at the Sanctum. Stephen immediately heads for the bathroom, feigning a sense of casual urgency as he goes through the motions of brushing his teeth, scrubbing his face, and sanitizing and applying a small swathe to a cut on his left forearm. In-between these numerous tasks, Dr. Strange leans over and casually turns on the water in his bathtub, watching the steam rise from the warm water. He notices the way the cloak bristles when its edges almost touch the surface of the bath, fluttering upwards and out of the way.

He hums "Nightswimming" and finishes his evening routine. Before he exits the bathroom, Strange stoops to turn off the bath water. Once again, the cloak practically _shivers_ as he leans over the tub.

 _This is going to be trickier than I thought,_ he thinks to himself. But if Dr. Strange is certain of one thing, it's his own towering intellect. Surely he can pull this off. He's performed numerous neuroendoscopies. Of _course_ he can dunk a sheet in a tub.

Good magicians know that the success of their art lies in misdirection.

Dr. Strange moves to his bedchamber and nonchalantly removes his shoes along with the cloak, settling it over one arm. Then he stops abruptly, harrumphing, as if he has forgotten something.

At double time, he returns to the bathroom, cloak still in hand. The bath water awaits…

It might have actually worked if Stephen had not been tempted to throw in a verbal reprimand right before the aquatic dénouement… But he can't help it.

"It's for your own good."

He hurls the cloak into the tub and suddenly both man and mantle freeze.

Strange freezes in expectation. The cloak freezes in pure terror, suspending itself in the air directly above the tub, spread out like a manta ray about to belly flop. There is a split-second where both beings regard each other, trying to determine the other's next move. Then the cloak's edges begin to ripple, and it starts to slide along the tiled wall…

"Oh no you don't!"

And all Hades breaks loose.

The doctor dives headfirst into the tub, grabbing the cloak by its collar and forcing it with all of his might downwards towards the steaming water. The cloak wriggles and squirms and writhes soundlessly.

The battle continues for about five minutes. There is a lot of frantic flapping, yelling nonsense syllables, and water spraying every direction until both cloak and doctor are completely soaked.

Strange moans the state of his jacket. "This is Spencer Hart!"

Meanwhile, the cloak has gone limp with defeat. Stephen sighs, exasperated and spent as much as his essential garment.

"It wouldn't have been so bad if you let me do this sooner."

The bath water (now stained a murky brown color) has gone cold, and the cloak shivers.

The doctor rolls his eyes. "It's not possible for you to catch cold. C'mon."

In a decidedly vanquished pose, the cloak slowly rises from the tepid water, dripping. Its typical velvety shine is muted with the moisture, but Stephen can tell that it is, at least, clean.

"C'mon," he says again.

Before the doctor can shield himself, the cloak suddenly twists, rapidly shaking and wringing itself out, a mix between a mop and a bearded collie. Consequently, the entire bathroom (including Strange) is covered with a spray of dirty droplets.

Dr. Strange wipes his face with his right arm, teeth gritted. Then he plucks the cloak from the air rather forcefully and takes it with him into the study, where he hopes to let his anger defuse by catching up on some research. He sets the cloak smoothly into a nearby armchair, but the cloak, rather than forming its shape to the chair like it usually does, simply crumples where he set it, shuddering faintly.

Stephen tries to ignore the cloak's behavior.

 _It's just pouting,_ he tells himself.

Nevertheless, he adds more kindling to the small glow emanating from the fireplace until it becomes a bright warm blaze.

And he picks up the damp cloak again, setting it in his lap while he reads in the armchair.

An hour passes as the study becomes downright cozy, and the cloak completely dries, shivering one last time before settling in Strange's lap. Stephen knows it isn't asleep ( _clothing can't possibly sleep_ ) but it is so still that it almost could be. Almost as a drowsy afterthought, the cloak winds one corner of its fabric around his right arm, holding it there.

Stephen doesn't remember until this moment that the cloak is actually stronger than him and could have easily escaped his mortal grasp during the epic bath time struggle, but it took care not to harm him in its escape attempt.

He runs one unsteady hand along its collar and settles back in the armchair, letting himself become mesmerized by the dancing flames of the fire, crackling cheerfully, lulling him into a blissful sleep.

 **A/N:** Wow! I am so overjoyed at the response to the first ficlet that I couldn't help but submit another short one! I can't promise that I will be able to update so quickly all the time, but I'll try my best. For those of you who sent lovely reviews, I shall be responding to all of you soon. J Please continue to let me know how I'm doing. I think I'm going to stick with "cloak" for right now, but I might experiment with some different pronouns for the cloak rather than "it." Perhaps "they" or "ze." What do you all think?

Some delicious hurt!Stephen in the next one!

~Ista


	3. Tears

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 3: Tears**

 **Warning:** The subject matter is more macabre in this one, kiddies. Take care of yourselves!

Darkness.

The flame from a torch flickers across the hall from their cell, casting elusive shadows upon a burgundy cloak, cinched and strung up against the wall. The dappled light also reflects off a man on the floor beside the cloak. He is shirtless, slumped over, and covered in chains.

Water drips from the stone ceiling above them like a leaky faucet, staccato droplets which juxtapose the heaving breaths of Stephen Strange.

Somewhere down the hallway, another cell slams shut, causing the doctor to jerk to his senses, eyes wide.

At least he's awake.

With Strange's sudden consciousness, the cloak _senses_ its chosen's fear, as tangible as a desperate handshake, as strong as a heady perfume.

And there isn't a damn thing the cloak can do about it.

"I was dreaming… about a chard and spinach scramble…"

The cloak wonders if the doctor is delirious. Then Strange coughs, spits something onto the cold stone floor.

"Just my luck to go looking for the god of mischief," he says, "and find the king of hell instead." His voice is rough, gravelly. Is Strange is talking to himself?

The doctor's head lolls from side to side, stiff limbs stretching to find the limits of the chains they are attached to. He doesn't have to stretch very far. Protected with various dark spells, there is absolutely no way Strange can break them without outside help.

Viewing Strange's attempts to free himself inspire the Cloak of Levitation to try escaping too. Despite the hooks and tight straps pinning it to the wall, the cloak uses all of its strength, wriggling horizontally and vertically—

"Hey…" Stephen's soft interjection stops the fabric from struggling. "It's all right."

Dr. Strange looks directly at the cloak, glassy eyes scanning across its crimson surface, stained darker in patches with his own blood. The cloak quavers with fury to see the gash across Stephen's forehead when he turns towards the light.

"Blackheart can't keep me here forever," the doctor mutters, his head falling back with exhaustion. "Once he sees I'm awake, he'll try to get the whereabouts of the Orb from me. Again." The ghost of a smile across his face. "And I'll have to disappoint him. Again."

Minutes pass in silence until the cloak stirs from its reverie by a distinct noise. It is not an easily identifiable one even though it comes from Strange. The cloak realizes it is because he has never heard the doctor make these particular noises: a faint wheezing mixed with a soft moan and punctuated with sharp inhalations through his nose.

Stephen Strange is crying.

The cloak writhes against its restraints, craning its collar to go free.

Tears wind down the doctor's cheeks. His crying is soundless now but somehow even more heartbreaking because the cloak knows that his grief continues.

The Cloak of Levitation twists and contorts itself with purpose, forcefully fidgeting until one clasp breaks loose.

It is not enough to liberate it completely, but it's enough for one corner of the cloak to reach Strange. Tenderly, the cloak draws its velvety curve across the doctor's face, wiping away the tears that run in streaks.

Stephen sighs, head drooping and leaning into the softness of the material.

The Sorcerer Supreme says nothing, and he doesn't have to.

Moments pass—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. Then, somewhere within the depths of Blackheart's prison, comes the unmistakable metallic _clang_ of Thor's hammer.

Dr. Strange weakly lifts his head, and he smiles.

"Seems help is on the way, my friend."

The cloak shivers with anticipation and… something else. If it was a lamp, it would have felt a warm glow at Strange's comment. But because it is simply a garment, albeit magical, the cloak contents itself with fluttering against Stephen's neck, supporting him, prepared to aid the god of thunder in the rescue of a man it once took a wild chance on—the man who has become something much more…

 _Friend._

 **A/N:** You all are being too good to me! And, heaven help me, I can't staaaaahp. Really. Truly. There are many more to come. Love and cupcakes and hugs to you all!


	4. Mending

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 4: Mending**

 **Warning:** Strange has a moment of panic in this one. *Hugs*

Dr. Strange's hands are shaking.

His hands are shaking, and he doesn't think he is up to the task at hand. Him. Dr. Stephen Strange. World famous neurosurgeon. First class this, world class that. Owner of more watches than the average ex-millionaire. He always was obsessed with time, with living in the moment and capturing it forever in his often photographic memory.

Now he wishes he was anywhere but the here and now—perhaps playing Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9, No. 1 in B-flat minor in his care-free past when his hands were steady, or glimpsing into the future when he'll be powerful enough to conjure up a cure for his broken, useless appendages.

But he can't shy away. One of his _friends_ is depending on him. And when your number of friends can be counted on one hand, you take care of each and every one of them.

 _Oh, stop being pathetic and pick up the needle and thread._

Strange sits at a table in his study. It is made of sturdy mahogany and must be at least two hundred years old.

The cloak which lays upon it is even older. And it is currently in pieces.

* * *

The Cloak of Levitation fought bravely yesterday afternoon when Dr. Strange was blindsided by the ferocious Arkon in a dark café in Seoul. Strange thought he had a new lead on Loki—one that Thor would be interested in. Unfortunately, the "secret" meeting he had arranged with his informant had drawn various spies of the criminal underworld.

The javelin lightning bolts that Arkon wielded must have been as old as the cloak, and just as powerful. Despite the sparks of golden magic coursing from Stephen's sling ring and the rapid incantations he uttered to escape, the situation deteriorated rapidly.

Somehow, Arkon's lightning bolts broke through Strange's defenses, and the cloak (ever the protective overgarment) billowed up in front of him, creating a crimson shield that would give Captain America a run for his money.

Dr. Strange had cried out, arms outstretched, but it was too late. A javelin made of lightning pierced the cloak from just below its collar along its right side in a burst of electric yellow light. The cloak hovered in the air for a moment, fluttering like a bird with a broken wing, before the quarter that had been torn fell lifelessly away, and the entire cloak crumpled to the floor along with it.

Strange blinked in shock yet forced himself to move, his knuckles carving swift amber circles in the south wall of the café.

Arkon chuckled grimly, the horns on his golden helmet gleaming. The doctor swallowed a lump in his throat, tenderly picking up his limp cloak and its torn corner and leaping through the portal he had created back to New York.

* * *

He's sewed up wounds before. Countless times. A thousand people, maybe more. Nasty gashes, deep cuts, long lacerations, superficial slashes. Always neverending, always bloody. How many times had he _intentionally_ carved a scalpel into someone? But he always did it to save them, and he _always_ sewed them up after.

Dr. Strange is quite capable with a needle and thread, but the honest truth is that he hasn't sewn anyone up since his accident. Not to mention, he has _never_ dabbled in the fine art of tailoring. Why make your own clothes when you can purchase them at the nearest Neiman Marcus?

The cloak stirs restlessly on the table. Since the fight, it has moved minimally, and it has ceased levitating. This disturbs Stephen to no end, although he can't quite articulate _why_ he feels this way.

 _It's just a piece of fabric. Get a grip._

But not even the self-assured Dr. Strange can completely agree with this statement. Especially not when the cloak lifts itself (dare he say _weakly_ ) and places a soft pressure on his left hand, as if to restore confidence to his shattered ego.

After the cloak's soothing gesture, his hands immediately begin to tremble more violently.

 _How convenient,_ Stephen thinks.

The doctor stands abruptly, moving to the windows, which are usually kept curtained, and drawing the shades back. He hesitates, almost opening one of the windows, because he's suddenly finding it difficult to breathe evenly, and his head feels floaty and light.

 _It's okay. You can do this. What's wrong with you?_

A _thump thump thump_ takes his attention away from his own anxiety and back to the cloak, which is whacking part of its edge against a table leg, like a cat flicking its tail impatiently.

"The light needed adjustment," Stephen says, trying to sound pragmatic but ending up high-pitched and pithy. He runs a hand over the curtains again, takes a deep breath, and walks back to the table, squaring his shoulders, and sitting down.

He picks up the needle and burgundy thread carefully, as if they are priceless treasures.

The doctor had spent a ridiculous forty-five minutes at the nearest craft shop searching for the _perfect_ shade of red. He had tried to describe it to a sales associate named _Marisa_ : "It's dark crimson, velvety, with flecks of gold that catch the light. Very regal and austere…"

Marisa had seemed unimpressed by his eloquent description but, nevertheless, showed him all of the colors of thread the store had on hand, and (at last!) Strange had found one he liked.

His throat is dry, his stomach churning. His hands crack and ache, tingling like they always do when the weather turns cold.

 _There is no possible way._

The cloak raises its collar again, as if to ask, "What's wrong?"

Dr. Strange audibly swallows and decides to talk through the procedure. It's more for his benefit than the cloak's.

"I'm going to start at the outer edge and work my way forward. All right? I'll do the collar last."

The cloak settles back on the table, it's detached portion unresponsive when Stephen picks it up.

Strange feels the trickle of sweat run down his back.

 _Concentrate._

"I'm going to start. Try to stay as still as possible."

The cloak flaps almost comically against table, causing Stephen to chuckle despite his own fear.

He says," I know that will be hard for you. But, please. Try."

The magical fabric is still once again. In fact, it is so still that Strange tries to trick his mind into thinking that it is just a regular swathe of cloth… but it doesn't work.

Seven minutes later, and thread finally gets through the eye of the needle. The doctor shudders at the effort, forcing his hands to quell their ceaseless shaking.

"Okay… Tell me if this hurts. I mean, I _know_ you can't talk, but try to signal to me if… Wait, can you even _feel_ pain?"

He's babbling. This is embarrassing. Dr. Strange wants to run from the room. The cloak is remarkably still, uncomplaining, waiting…

Stephen brings the two pieces of wine-red fabric together and somehow manages to grasp the needle in spite of his quivering hands. He grits his teeth, bringing the needle into the cloak…

… And it breaks in half.

Stephen gapes at the wrecked needle in shock. The cloak rustles, its collar bobbing up and down one time, as if shrugging.

Then, a voice from the hallway outside:

"Needle and thread won't work on the Cloak of Levitation. It's magical. You need to repair it with magic. Just sayin'…"

 _Wong._

Strange flicks his head to the doorway, but the other man is gone.

His fingers grasp the sides of his chair, drumming on them absently, and he hums an off-key tune for a few seconds before saying, "Be right back."

With that, the doctor dashes from his chair, grabs two books from his study, and races back to his bedchamber to peruse them.

Strange spends hours going through every reference and source on magical mending he can find, pouring over the details and the various spells until he finds the exact one he needs. However, the fact that the problem of fixing his cloak centers on a _magical_ rather than _practical_ solution does nothing to quell his fear of failure. If anything, Stephen is more convinced this time around that he will not succeed.

When he returns to the study, it is dark outside. Stephen walks back to the cloak, exactly where he left it. He examines its inactive posture, frozen, connoting sadness.

"I… I'm going to try again. With magic this time. Is that all right?"

The cloak slowly lifts its collar, moving up and down once before drooping back down.

Stephen clears his throat and spreads out his hands.

In a realization as sudden as a blow to the head, Stephen understands why he continues to hesitate restoring the cloak, be it with needle and thread or magic. Deep down, he feels…

"Broken," he says out loud.

The cloak twitches on the table, its partial collar rising up before setting back down.

"I feel like I can't fix you because _I_ am broken, and I always _will_ be broken, so how can I possibly fix you?" He pauses, takes a heaving breath. "Now you're hurt, and it's my fault."

There. He's said it. Stephen covers his eyes with both trembling hands in exhaustion. Moments later, he is surprised to find a soft fabric entwining his arms. Strange opens his eyes and finds the cloak resting against him.

 _It's a hug_ , Strange thinks. _It's hugging me._

And it is also a gesture of acceptance and forgiveness and affirmation to _begin_ the healing process. Wordlessly, Strange lifts his right hand, shaking even more fiercely than before, and he begins to whisper the spell he taught himself.

Golden light, richer and brighter than any magic he has produced thus far, pours from his hands and covers the Cloak of Levitation. Torn threads instantly knit back together.

Strange stands, and his voice grows louder over the hum of the magic. As he finishes the spell, its golden radiance lifts the cloak in the air, encircling it faster and faster until it vanishes in a flash, brighter than fireworks.

Stephen gazes in awe, pale hands once more at his sides. The Cloak of Levitation floats opposite him above the table, practically glowing and whole again. Unbelievably, the process took less than a minute and left the cloak seamless.

"Are you…" Strange clears his throat. "Are you okay now?"

In response, the cloak flies around the study, whipping Strange's black hair in his face and causing him to laugh at its usual antics.

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "I get it. As good as new."

The cloak lands directly in front of him again, and then (without direction or command) places itself on Stephen's shoulders. He can feel its collar nestled around his neck, its train rustling against his back. The touch is familiar, comforting, like being at home.

"Hmm," he murmurs, feigning restlessness and suppressing a yawn. "You're welcome."

Then the cloak lifts him gently upwards until his feet hover only a few inches above the floor.

The fleeting thought pops in Strange's tired analytical brain:

 _Maybe I'm not broken after all._

 **A/N:** Guys, you are seriously awesome. I don't even know what to say…. I only hope that this latest ficlet lives up to your expectations—I have been _overwhelmed_ by the response to these vignettes, and I love hearing from everyone. I'm behind on responding to reviews, but just know that I appreciate ALL of your feedback (Guests, you rock!), and I've also been inspired by numerous ideas left in the comments. Keep those ideas coming—I have created a list of future ficlets, and I get excited just thinking about them. Next up: The cloak saves the day during a particularly dull Avengers meeting.

P.S. Writing "Dr. Strange" fanfiction to Chopin is brilliant! Also, Brahms, Symphony No. 4, Movement 4 in E minor works well as a soundtrack for this chapter.


	5. Exhaustion

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 5: Exhaustion**

"I think I have to go to this _thing_ …"

Stephen Strange scrolls through the text message on his cell phone with one thumb absentmindedly. The cloak rustles alongside his back, as if voicing its initial disagreement with the decision.

It has been over 24 hours (a minimal estimate) since the good doctor has slept, and their recent mission required criss-crossing the globe, from Johannesburg to Dhaka to Saint Petersburg. Strange's latest intelligence-gathering mission required hours of research, tracking down hardened criminals, and practicing complicated spell work, which involved a great deal of concentration and energy from the Sorcerer Supreme.

The cloak feels Stephen's shoulders sag as he turns to the wall of gateways in the house on Bleecker Street, choosing one and turning its dial delicately until the image of the Avengers Tower flicks into focus.

"We'll stay for the first half, at least. Stark says it's important."

The cloak knows that Strange is trying his best at getting along with this new group that Thor inducted him into, people who are called "super heroes" by the public and media. But Stephen has only joined the Avengers recently, and the cloak can tell he doesn't feel completely comfortable around them yet, or comfortable with himself being labeled "super hero" alongside them. It's in the way his body tenses when he's around the Avengers, his back ramrod straight. And although predominantly positioned along his back, the cloak can still feel the beating of Strange's heart and the way it picks up when he's with the mismatched group.

Indeed, he often confesses to Wong (late at night over steamy cups of chamomile tea) about daydreaming during Avengers meetings, doodling images from the Mirror Dimension on a renegade napkin, or mumbling under his breath about how he could resolve issues more efficiently than the great Tony Stark ever could. And in _half_ the time.

"Ready?" Stephen whispers, almost to himself, and they step through the gateway…

The first time the cloak met the Avengers was in a conference room similar to the one in which Dr. Strange makes an entrance at Headquarters today.

"Oooooh," a woman with shining red hair had cooed when she had seen it for the first time, draped across Strange's shoulders. The cloak would soon learn that this woman was the infamous Black Widow. "That is _gorgeous._ May I touch it?"

Dr. Strange had looked baffled and then silently acquiesced. Natasha had run her fingers along its edge, laughing as the cloak tickled her hand.

Now Romanoff looks up from a laptop she is frantically typing on, flashing a bright smile at the newcomers.

"Hey!"

"H-hello," Strange stutters, moving forward into the conference room.

Black Widow continues, "It's my favorite piece of fabric!"

The cloak ripples with pleasure against Strange's back as Stephen is caught off guard, presumably thinking Black Widow's greeting was originally meant for _him._ The cloak notices Bruce Banner, sitting across the table, cough into fist and hide a smile.

Clint Barton, beside Natasha, raises an outstretched hand to the cloak, and it high-fives him, a gesture that makes Strange bristle.

He glares at Hawkeye before sitting next to Bruce. "Don't encourage it."

The cloak flutters out from behind Strange, amused at the doctor's crankiness.

Thor enters next, sitting beside Stephen, followed by Steve Rogers and Tony Stark, who take their places at opposite ends of the table.

"My good friend," Thor says jovially, grasping his hand. Strange winces, and Thor pulls his hand away.

"Forgive me," the Asgardian says quickly. "I forgot—"

"Don't worry about it," Stephen replies, folding his damaged hands in his lap. The cloak raises its edges to cover Strange's arms in a show of sympathy, but the doctor shrugs it off. Thor notices the gesture and looks like he's about to speak again when he is interrupted by Tony.

"Thank you all for coming," Stark says, not even looking up from his tablet in one hand and coffee mug in the other.

"Especially Strange," says Rogers. "We didn't think you'd be able to make it. Weren't you in Moscow earlier today?"

"St. Petersburg," the Master of the Mystic Arts says, rubbing his eyes furiously.

"You all right, Stephen?" Rogers asks, his face radiating concern. "You look beat."

Stark cuts in before Strange has a chance to respond. "That's Cap-speak for 'you look like crap.'"

The doctor shakes his head, scowling. "I'm fine. Let's start."

Behind him, the cloak wrinkles itself, tapping against his head in a way that clearly expresses discord with Strange's response, but Stephen jerks his head away with annoyance.

The cloak knows the source of Dr. Strange's irritability: too much astral projection, not enough sleeping. But the doctor is too stubborn to listen to his own body's needs, much less the cloak's opinions. By now, it has spent enough time guarding Strange when he's sleeping to know when the doctor is at rest and when he's flying about in another realm _sans_ cloak.

The results are predictable. An up-all-night Dr. Strange is comparable to an astral-projecting Dr. Strange. Symptoms include grouchiness, a monstrous appetite, blaming everything on the cloak (or Wong), and falling asleep during meetings. Especially boring Avengers meetings.

Not that every meeting is dull. Sometimes the group gets interrupted by the Kree or Skrulls or some evil mad scientist bent on destroying the world (Who knew there were so many of _those?)_.

But this meeting is decidedly dull. The cloak knows it's going to be a boring meeting when Tony Stark begins by going over the _budget_ again. Barton mutters something from the side of his mouth, something that Romanoff chuckles at while Banner adjusts his spectacles and Dr. Strange stifles what has to be the twentieth yawn of the afternoon. Even Steve Rogers shifts in his seat, and Thor raises his hand to speak like he's in 2nd grade and has missed out on recess.

"Stark," the Asgardian booms. "Did we not go over the…uh… _budget_ last Thursday?"

Tony purses his lips, fingers sliding across the sides of the panel projection that illuminates the table they're congregated around. He scratches the back of his head, eyes narrowing.

"Look, Game of Thrones, it's an important issues that _not many people_ on this team seem to take seriously, but we've _got_ to talk about it."

"I take a lot of things seriously!" Clint protests, squashing a grin.

"Yeah," says Bruce, "like practical jokes."

"Fast food," adds Rogers.

"Napping," Natasha pipes up.

"And don't forget the leather accessories," Stephen mumbles.

Decidedly the quietest member of the team since Bruce Banner, the other Avengers are at first taken aback at Strange's comment, then the group bursts out laughing, tossing in further agreements. Even Stark cracks a smile as Hawkeye folds his arms, mock-pouting.

Eventually, the giggles subside and the meeting continues, just as dry and slothful as before.

The cloak can hear Strange's breath begin to even out and it can feel his heartbeat slow down and it knows he's going to fall asleep. It's only a matter of time. The crimson fabric shudders, drumming against his shoulders, thumping along his spine, but Stephen merely waves it off again and sinks further down in his seat. His head begins to droop, and the cloak goes into full-on panic mode.

It can't let the doctor fall asleep. If the others catch him asleep, the cloak is less worried about the Avengers teasing him and more worried about Strange beating _himself_ up for showing weakness.

The Cloak of Levitation has one purpose: to protect its chosen. And so the cloak does the only thing it can think of to save Dr. Strange in that moment….

…It creates a diversion.

Gently disconnecting its collar from around Stephen's neck, it proceeds to hover over the conference table, catching everyone's attention, then it drapes over the table like fancy napery, blocking Stark's presentation.

The billionaire, playboy, etc. cocks his head at the cloak and looks to Banner for advice. But before Bruce can answer, Thor attempts to gently remove the fabric from the table. The cloak anticipated this happening and rapidly billows into the air, knocking Thor backwards. Then it wends around the conference room, flying haphazardly, swooping low enough for Barton to duck and for Romanoff to hide under a chair.

"So much for the meeting," Steve shouts to Tony, crouched as if ready for combat, his blue eyes shining quizzically.

Stark is too busy trying not to spill his coffee all over himself. Several expletives later, he realizes it's a lost cause.

During its antics, the cloak watches Stephen carefully. Soon, the others' cries jolt him awake. Strange's eyes widen as he gazes at the Cloak of Levitation, honestly baffled. He stands up, fists clenched.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" the Sorcerer Supreme cries.

Instantly, the cloak flies to its chosen, plummeting down and landing perfectly on Stephen's shoulders. Dr. Strange's head moves to his right, then his left, as if trying to assert his dominance over the cloak.

"Sorry," he says to no one in particular. Half of the Avengers are sprawled across the floor. Cap looks like he misses his shield. "Must be antsy. I'm…" The cloak feels Stephen's neck grow hot underneath its collar. "Yeah, I'm gonna go now…"

"I understand," says Thor kindly. "Mjolnir sometimes gets like this."

"Really?" Strange says.

"No, not really," says Thor.

Strange sighs tiredly and exits the room, closing the door behind him. But he only walks a few paces before a voice stops him.

"Hey."

It's Stark. He's hesitating, dark brown eyes soft and warm, brown splotches of caffeine coating his striped tie.

Dr. Strange turns around. "Yeah?"

"It really looks out for you, doesn't it?"

A pause.

The cloak feels a crest of pride surge through its textile body.

Sound catches in Strange's throat, but he manages to nod before he walks away and instantly weaves his magic against a concrete wall, creating amber circles through his sling ring that both cloak and chosen step through effortlessly.

Back at the Sanctum Sanctorum, Strange walks up the stairs to his bedchamber in silence. The cloak hovers anxiously, tapping against Stephen's heels, wondering how upset the doctor is at its hi-jinks earlier. Strange slouches as he walks, and the cloak can tell the doctor is losing his battle with exhaustion. Sure enough, Stephen misses the edge of a step going up and trips, scrambling for purchase, arms flailing—

-but the cloak would never let the doctor fall.

It immediately pulls Strange back by its collar, re-establishing the man's balance, using folds of its fabric to support his body like strong arms.

Strange is slightly shocked, breathing hard, and he grasps the banister weakly. Patiently, the cloak hovers, supportive and still.

"Thank you," Stephen says in a small voice.

The cloak flutters along his back, as if to signal: _Don't mention it._

But then Strange reaches behind, grasping a portion of the cloak in his hands to pull in front of himself, holding it in his arms like an embrace, and addressing it directly.

"Thank you," he repeats.

And the cloak realizes this is gratitude expressed for more than what just happened on the stairs. This is for helping Strange save face during the meeting, maintaining his reputation in front of his peers.

Stephen smiles—the first genuine smile the cloak has seen from him all day.

"You know, I really don't deserve you."

The cloak wriggles in his grasp and then bops him on the nose teasingly. Stephen is too tired to admonish it and simply smiles sleepily.

Together, they continue ascending the stairs at a snail's pace. And if Dr. Strange stumbles again, the cloak will be there to catch him.

 **A/N:** Sooooo I'm not real sure how I feel about this one, and I'm definitely putting pressure on myself to make some epic ficlets after such amazing responses to the last one. What do you all think? Kudos to **MarburyBlur** for giving me the kernel idea for this fic in the comments. My take on this story: wanting Stephen to have some decent interaction with the Avengers gang—see how he might start to fit in… and then have the cloak save the day and be awesome (as it always is, 'cause it can't NOT be awesome).

I always welcome suggestions and feedback—your comments continue to inspire me. I mean, gosh peoples—you're giving me so much joy and good vibes. I'm happier than a unicorn eating cake on a rainbow!

Next up: The cloak is feeling _gloomy_ and Stephen tries everything he can to cheer it up, including doing some serious research. Can he possibly give it the best present ever… a NAME?

P.S. Anyone have any idea what those portal/gateway thingies are called in the Sanctum that Stephen uses to oust Kaecilius' cronies? Confession: I still have only seen the movie ONCE.

P.P.S. LOVE and SPRINKLES to all of my GUEST reviewers!

 **Marygrace:** I am SO tickled that you're enjoying these ficlets. Your reviews are so kind—thank you! I will definitely keep in mind the idea of the cloak sneaking items for the Avengers—that would be too cute. Perhaps during another meeting or mission?

 **peacockgirl:** I'm glad that you enjoyed nervous Stephen and backseat-mending Wong. Haha Thank you for the lovely review!


	6. Melancholia

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 6: Melancholia**

The cloak of levitation is moping.

Since November 4th, the cloak has been listless and downright droopy. It drifts, as if bored, from room to room in the Sanctum Sanctorum whilst Dr. Strange is attending to his duties as Sorcerer Supreme or training without it.

Stephen might be meditating on the floor of his bedchamber or teleconferencing with Tony Stark in the study when he'll see a flash of burgundy out of the corner of his eye. But when he goes to investigate, the cloak will be gone.

It isn't until three days later that the doctor has had enough. Strange is concocting a tasty lunch of cumin-spiced red beans and rice when he suddenly realizes he is not alone.

Sure enough, the cloak hovers in the doorway of the kitchen like it is watching him cook. Languidly, it flutters, barely touching the frame of the door.

Strange sets down his spatula, eyes scanning the steaming food. He asks without turning around, "So, what's the matter?"

He hears the faintest flicker of fabric along the tiled floor and decides to continue, keeping his sight fixed on the saucepan in front of him and adding a pinch of salt to the bean mixture.

"You've been acting like a wet blanket since Saturday. Can you somehow explain to me _why_ —"

The doctor stops abruptly when he looks up and notices that the cloak is gone.

* * *

People are easy to read. When _people_ act like fussy idiots, it usually means that they're sick. But cloaks can't get sick. Thus, Dr. Strange finds himself with a conundrum. Something is wrong with the cloak, something _emotional_ rather than physical.

He tries to practice spell work that evening but finds he can't concentrate. Instead, Dr. Strange walks at a quick pace to his chamber, where he finds the cloak draped across its favorite chair beside his bed, one it usually only occupies during the night when he is asleep. This further perplexes the neurosurgeon, and he attempts to comfort it, trying to impart without words that he is concerned by picking up a fold of the crimson cloth and caressing it with two fingers. But the Cloak of Levitation falls limply upon the upholstered seat, and Dr. Strange takes a step back, his lips pressed into one straight line.

It suddenly occurs to Stephen that the cloak's mood directly affects his own. Thus, he will not be able to concentrate on his work until a solution to the cloak's current state has been found. Scanning his eyes over the garment for the hundredth time since he noticed something amiss, Strange fleetingly wonders if he became mentally or emotionally connected to the piece of magical fabric after it chose him. In some mystical, guru, New Age way.

 _Or maybe you just care for it._

Stephen mutters under his breath as he leaves the room.

"I'll get to the bottom of the this."

* * *

 _Tuesday, November 7_ _th_

 _11:33 P.M._

 _Google search: Cloaks_

 _Wikipedia, it is._

 _"The word_ _cloak_ _comes from Old North French_ _cloque_ _(_ _Old French_ _cloche,_ _cloke) meaning 'traveling cloak,' from_ _Medieval Latin_ _clocca, 't_ _ravelers' cape,' literally 'a bell,' so called from the garment's bell-like shape. Thus the word is related to the word_ _clock."_

 _More connections between this relic and_ _time_ _…_

 _Often, cloaks are used as fashion statements or signs of wealth. Many cloaks (i.e. "opera cloaks") are made from materials such as wool, cashmere, velvet, and satin._

 _"Cloaks are a staple garment in the fantasy genre…"_

 _Apparently, cloaks are associated with witches, wizards, and vampires. I'm sure Dracula would_ love _to get his dirty paws on_ my _cloak. However, the connections to magic I'm reading about are spot-on._

 _It says that cloaks in literature often have supernatural powers, such as granting invisibility._

 _Nope._

 _Or camouflage…_

 _Maybe?_

 _Alternatively, they may "nullify magical projectiles."_

 _Check._

 _Metaphor: "Figuratively, a cloak may be anything that disguises or conceals something."_

 _Does this point to something I should be worried about?_

* * *

Dr. Strange looks up from his laptop and notes in his journal with the worn leather binding to find the cloak quivering in the air some ten feet to his right. The way its collar quirks up, Stephen could swear that an invisible head sits atop invisible shoulders, its invisible eyes staring at him. This thought is disturbing, but it flies from his mind as soon as he notices the sag in the fabric, its soft tendrils nearly touching the floor.

 _It knows that I'm researching it._

"I'm trying to help you," the doctor says, his voice gruff from underuse. "If you would only tell me…"

But the cloak begins to flit away. Strange's eyes dart across the laptop's bright glare in the dark study.

… _disguises or conceals something…_

"What is it you're hiding?"

In response, the cloak disappears from sight.

* * *

Stephen Strange has never considered himself much of a decorator, but with the holiday season fast approaching, and the cloak not improving, he makes an effort to spruce up the Sanctum.

To be honest, he doesn't do much. First, the doctor makes sure to pull back the curtains every day in the Sanctum's largest rooms, letting in as much natural light as possible as the days grow shorter and darker. He often finds the cloak hovering in front of a window, as if admiring the city view, its crimson fabric shivering.

Next, he sets candles scented with cinnamon and pine on his desk and dining table. A wreath of holly hanging on the front door. White twinkle lights that wrap around the study, giving it a cheery touch.

He's in the middle of tacking up _another_ strand of multi-colored lights in the foyer, balancing precariously, with one foot on a bookshelf and the other on the high back of an armchair, when he loses his balance and falls. Strange cries out, his arms held up instinctively to protect himself, when he sees a flash of burgundy. There is a rush of air, and the doctor is suddenly lying face down on what feels like a hammock, folded up at both ends like a giant bow. It gently rocks back and forth until it settles on the floor.

Of course, the cloak saved him.

"Th-thanks," Strange says, sitting up and trying unsuccessfully to hide the shake from his voice. "I was just—"

But the cloak wriggles out from underneath him and zooms away. Stephen is left sitting on the floor, blinking in confusion, the strand of Christmas lights wrapped around him in tangled knots. This is the state that Wong finds him in when the other man rushes into the hallway.

"I heard a shout. Are you…" Wong trails off at the sight of Stephen, his worried expression instantly changing to one of amusement.

" _I'm_ …. _Fine_." Strange spits out each word, trying to contain his frustration. However, the Sorcerer Supreme loses the battle with his own emotions when the strand of lights impedes his ability to stand up, and he ends up throwing the entire mess on the floor like a petulant child.

Wong bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "It's the cloak, isn't it?"

Stephen sighs, his fury melting away to hopelessness with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I just don't know what to do."

Wong pauses thoughtfully for a moment before replying. "There is a book in the study you may not have read yet. _Relics of the Mystic Arts._ You'll find a solution there."

Strange rolls his eyes. "This isn't another one of those 'go find the answers you seek in an ancient _book,_ Stephen, even though _I_ know the answer and could tell you right _now_ ,' is it?"

But Wong has already left the foyer.

Stephen kicks the jumble of lights. "Why does everyone keep _doing_ that?!"

* * *

 _Sunday, November 26_ _th_

 _1:29 P.M._

 _Here we go again._

 _I'm perusing the dusty tome,_ _Relics of the Mystic Arts_ , _which is so old, it could be a relic itself._

 _There are a whopping_ two _pages on the cloak. I'm sure I'll be able to find all the info I need on it… sigh_

 _"…It is suspected that the Cloak of Levitation is many centuries old, since it was in the possession of the Ancient One."_

 _No surprises there._

 _The cloak can be "animated independently" or "to its chosen's commands…"_

 _Wait a minute. Its_ _chosen._ _That's ME._

 _After reading and re-reading the passage on the cloak, I find little about its history and more of a description of its abilities, which I already know. It can levitate (OBVIOUSLY), fly, retrieve, attack, and ensnare. It can reach speeds of up to 25 miles per hour if its wearer has the magical stamina. It responds to spoken commands. The cloak can also be used as a shield and alter its shape…_

 _"Although the Cloak of Levitation is its title, it does not have a given name…"_

 _Found it._

* * *

Dr. Strange divides eight index cards into two groups on the large map table in the study and places each card so that the single word on each of them is visible. He doesn't even have to call for the cloak because it floats, inexplicable, into the area and hovers beside him like a ghost, observing his actions curiously.

The cards read:

SHE, HE, ZE, THEY, IT

CLOAK OF LEVITATION, CLOAK, VINCENT

Without looking up, Stephen says in a low tone, "I thought it was time I asked you what you prefer to be called. Pronoun and…name."

A tiny tremble runs through the dark red cloth as the cloak dances closer to the cards. The doctor feels a flicker of satisfaction run through him. This is the most animated the cloak has acted in nearly a month.

The cloak runs an edge of cloth over each card delicately, taking care not to move them or mix them up. At last, it stops on the note card labeled VINCENT and lifts its collar towards Stephen, as if asking about the word's significance.

"Ah… Well..." Dr. Strange fumbles for the right words, at last looking up, speaking softly and completely serious. "It is my middle name. And I thought I might give it to you… If… If you want it."

The cloak shimmers in the air, pleased with the explanation, and flies toward Stephen, brushing a corner of its fabric against his arm before going back to the table. Holding his breath, Dr. Strange watches the cloak closely as it holds up a corner of cloth to indicate two cards.

IT

CLOAK

"I see," says Stephen, not sure if he's surprised or relieved to have the cloak affirm what he has been calling it for over a year. A smile breaks upon his face, and he's about to vocalize his pleasure when the cloak floats towards one of the giant windows in the study, its back to him, just as dejected as ever.

Any annoyance Strange has felt at the cloak's dismal mood now turns to sorrow. He has exhausted every possible resource and idea to make the cloak return to its old self again.

"I'm sorry," he admits, head bowed. "I thought that _giving_ you something might cheer you up or take your thoughts away from whatever's bothering you, but I just don't have the answers. Could you… please…Help me?"

The Cloak of Levitation half-turns around, hesitates in its movement, and then pulsates past him, turning back around, wanting the doctor to follow. Strange is intrigued and follows the fabric to a picture framed in ornate silver in the hallway outside. When Stephen examines the painting, he is surprised that he never noticed it before.

It's a portrait of the Ancient One, her face exuding calm and happiness through her eyes, although she does not smile. Simultaneously childlike and wise, eternal and fleeting. In one gesture that evokes infinite sadness, the cloak sweeps against the picture.

Strange could be knocked over with a feather.

"You _miss_ her."

Rapidly, the pieces fall into place. Strange should have known, should have realized… When the cloak started moping around, it was the one year anniversary of their old master's death.

The cloak drifts down the hallway out of sight.

Stephen finds himself staring at the painting of the Ancient One, mesmerized, until a voice nearby causes him to jump.

"Didn't you read that book I recommended?!"

Strange curses and finds Wong beside him. Since when was Wong an expert on being sneaky?

The librarian doesn't wait for an answer. Rather, he continues like a teacher scolding a schoolboy. "YOU are its chosen now. It follows you not because it _has_ to but because it _wants_ to."

All of a sudden, a passage from the "Relics" book drifts through Stephen's mind: _The cloak can be "animated independently" or "to its chosen's commands…"_

"You're all it has left."

* * *

"RISE AND SHINE!"

The cloak ruffles like a startled bat in Stephen's arms as he unceremoniously plucks it out of the armchair by his bed and billows it in the air. As if surprised at the hasty movement, it attempts to scramble from the Sorcerer's grasp, but Dr. Strange holds on tightly, folding it in his arms and carrying it to the kitchen.

He whistles cheerfully. The cloak makes a solid effort at escape by wrapping itself around his legs.

"Oh, c'mon," he chides. "You're worse than a boa constrictor."

When they arrive in the kitchen, the cloak stops trying to wiggle free and freezes.

Stephen grins. If the over garment had a jaw, it would have dropped open.

On the stainless steel of the kitchen table is a small round cake with burgundy icing and a golden "1" decorated on top. A single gold candle is stuck in the center of the number, and its flame glows brightly.

The cloak rustles in his grasp.

"I miss the Ancient One too. But I'm _honored_ to be your chosen. And I know you're probably thousands of years old, but consider this a celebration of your birthday with me. Your first birthday."

The cloak's collar rotates from Stephen's face to the cake, back and forth, as if trying to put it all together.

Strange clears his throat and releases his grip on the cloth. "Yeah, I know you can't eat. But you can make a wish and blow out the candle."

The doctor expects the cloak to fly away from him, as it has consistently done for the past several weeks. He expects to have to run after it again or try a different tactic. He expects anything and everything than what the cloak _actually_ does in that moment.

It tenderly wraps around his shoulders, collar facing him instead of behind his neck. Stephen stiffens at the contact at first and then relaxes into it, feeling its comforting warmth that he has missed for so long.

 _It's hugging me,_ he thinks.

"Are you gonna blow out the candle?" comes Wong's voice from behind them. "I've been waiting to eat a piece of that cake all day."

Stephen chuckles. Then the cloak, lightning-quick, shoots above the cake and waves its fabric like a fan. The flame on the candle extinguishes, leaving a smoky trail in its wake.

 **A/N:** SURPRISE! A new one.

I sensed some intense disapproval in the comments at the hint that I would give the cloak a name. Sorry to lead you all on! It was never my intention to give the cloak a name. I, like most of you, agree that "cloak" seems to fit nicely enough. But I _did_ want Stephen to experience the dilemma of names and pronouns because when you become attached to someone (or some _thing_ ) you can't help but name it…. I _still_ remember the names I gave all my teddy bears when I was little, and they had WAY less personality than the cloak. Come to think of it, my CAT had less personality than the cloak.

ANYways…..

I continue to be overwhelmed and overjoyed and over the MOON with all the reviews and favorites and follows! You are all too wonderful. Keep it up!

Current movie soundtrack = _Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_

Thanks to all the GUEST reviewers!

Next up… Hurt!Stephen and Cloak-to-the-rescue!


	7. Cold

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 7: Cold**

The cloak has been buried alive.

As it struggles underneath the enormous weight on top of it, it can't help but be astounded at the realization that there is something else that it dislikes more than liquid water: white, flaky, clumpy, icy H2O.

Otherwise known as snow.

Otherwise known as a major pain in the cloak's nonexistent derriere.

The last thing the cloak recalls was a violent blast from evil Baron Mordo that separated it from its chosen, tossing both man and mantle like brittle leaves onto the frozen tundra of Nowheresville, Antarctica. The impact on the cloak was so strong that it plummeted through several feet of snow beneath the surface before coming to a stop.

It only hopes that Dr. Strange didn't suffer the same fate.

Wriggling to get closer to the surface, the cloak experiments bunching up and expanding its cape, finding enough success in the technique that it repeats the motions, breaking through sections of hard-packed snow and ice, getting closer to the powdery substance of the surface.

There is no sound but the swirl of frigid wind above it. There is no sensation but the frosty kiss of cold, pressing inwards, claustrophobic, dark, and hypnotic.

The cloak is impervious to temperature, but it dislikes the cold almost as much as the sensation of wetness on its burgundy cloth. As a garment forged to protect its wearer from the elements, it can't help but have an instinctive dislike to any extreme climates or situations that could endanger them.

How many minutes have passed? Has it been five? Or twenty-five? The cloak has not heard Dr. Strange (or any other creature, for that matter) in all that time. Is it possible that Strange's nemesis left, taking Stephen with him? Or was the Sorcerer Supreme left behind? Could it be that the cloak's chosen is currently searching for it? Then why does the cloak not hear his voice?

At last, with a final desperate tug, the cloak pushes past the surface like a breaching whale. Spiraling upwards, it wrings out any remaining moisture and shakes itself off, scattering droplets of snow in a messy spray.

Feeling somewhat better, the cloak glides across the pristine terrain, snow glittering white like opals beneath it as it searches for the doctor. The overgarment calculates how far it must have been flung after their immediate separation. It fights back a panic it knows is completely illogical. Strange mustn't be far away. _So then where_ is _he?_

It doesn't have to travel far before it finds him.

The cloak perceptibly shudders, whisking downwards towards the figure of its chosen, lying on his left side on the frozen ground.

Strange's body is still. His left arm is outstretched, head tucked in slightly to his chest. A light dusting of precipitation has collected upon his form, coating his abdomen and partially burying his extended hand. The cloak, finicky, brushes the snow off his figure as if it is a swarm of poisonous insects. In its movement, the cloak raises Stephen's arm, but he remains unresponsive, and his hand falls limply back to the ground.

The cloak moves in closer to its chosen, examining his face. Icicles stick to Strange's beard like tiny shards of glass. His eyes are closed, and blood (almost black in color) coats his nostrils. And is it just the proximity of his cobalt-colored suit, or is his skin tinged blue? The cloak leans in further and tickles Stephen's cheek with its soft frilled edges, willing him to _wake up, wake up, wake up._

But the doctor doesn't move.

Never one to resist a challenge, the cloak lifts his outstretched arm again, bringing it up to drop it back down. It tries a second time, a third, a fourth.

Still, the doctor doesn't move.

It swoops into the air, hovering directly above the Strange, and reaches out with a folded corner for thickness, like two fingers put together. Then it proceeds to poke Stephen on the head repeatedly.

 _Tap…...tap…tap…_

It does so slowly at first, gently. However, it soon grows tired of the lack of response, so the cloak picks up its pace:

 _Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…_

Nothing.

Without any success at reviving its chosen, the cloak feels a mixture of exasperation and fear. It can't be. Dr. Stephen Strange isn't…

The Cloak of Levitation flits above the man's body and gently drapes him, protecting him from his knees to the nape of his neck. It pauses briefly, like taking a deep breath, and then entwines around his limp form, pressing into him.

Thus, the magical fabric feels for its chosen's heartbeat.

It is initially alarmed at how little heat the man's body gives off. Nevertheless, the cloak remains motionless, keenly listening, pushing into his chest to sense any echo of life.

Cold wind swirls around the pair, and it seems like an eternity has gone by before the ancient relic perceives, faintly, from what seems like the last remaining patch of warmth on the doctor's breast, a pulse:

 _Thud…thud…thud…_

And now that the cloak is concentrating solely on covering Strange, not letting the faintest breeze billow its find threads, it also feels his chest expand and contract. The cloak perks up when it notices the puff of air shiver from his lips.

Repeating the gesture from before, it gathers two layers of cloth into a bunch and sets into his head.

 _Tap….tap….tap?_

Nothing.

 _TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP—_

Dr. Strange moans, rolling onto his back.

Success!

The cloak scrambles and moves with the doctor, its collar mere inches from his face, as if peering at him. After a few more groans, Stephen's bleary eyes open and focus on the crimson cloth.

"Thought i' was you," he mumbles, bringing up a fist to absently wipe at his nose. Then he proceeds to stare at his hand, blinking bemusedly at the blood he smeared away. This gives the cloak the idea that the good doctor is _not quite all there…_

"Wait," Strange starts, shifting his gaze sluggishly back to his companion. "Are you… backwards?"

The cloak bobs its collar up and down, nodding. Its edges ripple against Stephen's cold clothes eagerly, trying to show him how happy it is that he's _awake_ and that they can finally _leave_ this frigid, bitter, hellish, wrinkle-inducing place.

Can't they?

As if Stephen gleans the overgarment's intentions, his head falls back in defeat.

"Mordo…took my sling ring with him… And I d-don't have the s-strength to…"

The ancient relic stiffens, but it's not because of the cold. How could it have forgotten? Its powers of flight (with wearer in tow) are contingent on said wearer's magical energy. If its chosen is drained, the cloak cannot even lift them in the air, let alone around the world.

It finally sinks into the cloak's thoughts: They are stuck on this giant ice cube, with no foreseeable way out…

"'m so c-cold."

Dr. Strange rolls to his left side again and curls inwards. The cloak scuttles off him and hovers, fearful of its chosen's condition in the way his teeth chatter and in the way that his speech is becoming increasingly more incoherent. He is shivering.

The cloak wants nothing more than to lift Strange up like a precious parcel and carry him away, but it can't, and this causes it to panic. Suddenly jittery, it darts diagonally in the air above its chosen.

"S-so c-cold…"

Then it begins to snow.

This is the final straw, and the cloak overcomes its dread to take action. Because it will _not_ see its chosen suffer like this.

Soothingly, it bends the doctor's knees forward so that his legs are tucked in. Then it drapes itself heavily upon Stephen, covering him from head to toe, folding its collar around so that Strange is lying inside a cozy burgundy-colored tent. Snowflakes continue to gather like confetti on its velvety fabric outside, but the cloak flicks them away.

The overgarment is thick and provides an extra layer of warmth and protection from the elements, and eventually Stephen's teeth stop chattering. His body stills, breath evening out. However, observing the blue-tinge of the doctor's lips, the cloak fears he is not out of the woods yet.

Dr. Strange shifts into a doze, murmuring something about wanting "hot chocolate." The cloak rubs circles into his arm for support, trying to keep the man awake. The relic isn't sure what it would do if he falls asleep again. It can't give up hope now, even as the wind picks up and howls around them, even as the temperature drops rapidly with every minute that passes, even as the sky grows darker.

The overgarment begins clinging to Stephen's frame just so it won't blow away from the gusts, and the man continues to mumble in frighteningly clipped phrases ("Mordo," "Book of Vishanti," "Ancient One," "Donna,") that the cloak can't always make out.

Then—a spark ignites out of thin air perhaps fifty feet away. The Cloak of Levitation thinks it must be going mad until it notices that the golden light is tracing the pattern of a circle in the snowy sky. At the familiar sign, the cloak smartens up.

Oblivious to the magic glinting behind him, Stephen stirs and sighs. The cloak begins tapping his right shoulder rapidly, trying to alert him.

"Yeeees?" the sorcerer drawls, eyelids drooping. "I'm awake. I think."

The cloak tugs on Stephen's nose gently, keeping track of its chosen and the circle that is glowing more brightly behind them at the same time. Another flash of anxiety runs through it when it realizes the circle has an equal chance of being a good or bad omen. What if Mordo steps through it instead of a helping hand?

"Hey….Cloak."

The cloak feels Stephen grasp its fabric like a toddler holding onto an adult's thumb.

"I'm glad you're with me…"

The cloak quavers with pleasure just as a figure steps through the amber light and onto the Antarctica plain, approaching the stranded pair. The cloak reflexively stiffens, coiled like a cobra ready to strike to defend Dr. Strange.

But then the stranger's face comes into view, partially obscured by a furry hood, hands that are covered in giant mittens reaching down to carefully peel the cloak away.

Strange looks up, eyes struggling to focus on the other man, but an exhausted smile breaks upon the doctor's face when he recognizes him.

"Wong!"

"It's too cold here," says the librarian flatly. "Even for a blanket."

Usually, the cloak would have taken offense at such a statement, but, instead, it ruffles its edges up proudly. Because it knows Stephen will be all right. And because they are going home.

 **A/N:** Apologies—I'm no medical expert and have never experienced hypothermia (thankfully). So I just channeled what Luke must have felt like on Hoth after that crazy yeti thing attacked him. Pretty darn cold, peoples.

I continue to be amazed and humbled at all of the reviews and favorites and follows these little ficlets are getting. Somebody, please—pinch me. Thank you X 1, 584, 673. Keep those story ideas coming! They are tremendously inspiring, and I hope to incorporate as many ideas as possible into future ficlets.

 **The Magic Within:** I really appreciate your thorough and honest reviews. They always encourage me and give me a little more confidence in myself. Thank you SO much! P.S. I shall have a fic featuring a BAMF Stephen showing off his skills to the Avengers in about four chapters from now. Hope you can wait that long!

 **Kat:** Yes, I love the name Vincent too, but I think Stephen will stick with "Cloak." :) Thanks for your review!

 **Aria:** I'm glad you're enjoying these! Thanks so much for reviewing!

 **KestrelChan:** Thank you for the review! Yes—I was actually thinking the cake was red velvet too. haha

Thanks to all my **Guest** reviewers!

~Ista ^_^


	8. Burned

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 8: Burned**

Sweat runs into Dr. Strange's eyes.

In the training center of the Sanctorum, the doctor gives in to pure physical exertion. Not overly fond of working out, he does find pleasure in the flexibility it allows his mind. For most of his spell work (and obviously during meditation) his thoughts must be precisely focused. However, when he's running laps or practicing defensive maneuvers, his brain can shift to autopilot. It's a rare respite for a mind that has always been overworked.

Usually, his physical limitations eventually catch up with him during a work out, or the doctor gets bored, but this particular session extends for over an hour as he takes assessment of his skill set and makes a mental checklist of all the possible things he needs to do today: write to Professor Xavier (re: the Kolkata dilemma), interview a new set of recruits for the training center in Tibet, finish reading _The Ars Notoria_ , and somehow coerce Wong into dusting the relics kept in the library so he doesn't have to. And maybe, possibly, potentially…..get Wong a Christmas present.

 _Does Wong even_ celebrate _Christmas?_

There are always a million things to do and seemingly a million global concerns that acquire his attention at any given moment. But it didn't take him long to learn to balance his time between the physical and mental tasks that fill up each of his days. He's Dr. Strange, after all. He's always been a fast learner.

All of these thoughts flit through Stephen's mind until he hears the unmistakable rumble of his phone vibrating on a nearby bench. He wipes sweat off his upper lip with the front of his shirt and checks the text message.

It's Tony Stark.

NEED YOU TO SOLVE A LITTLE PROBLEM DEVELOPING. COOPER POWER PLANT, NEBRASKA.

Strange considers the text, unsteady fingers stumbling over the touch screen buttons.

IS IT SERIOUS?

Bubbled red dots appear at the bottom of his screen, signaling Stark's forthcoming reply:

YEAH, KINDA. WOULD'VE FIGURED YOU SAW THIS ONE COMING IN YOUR CRYSTAL BALL.

IT'S NOT A CRYSTAL BALL. IT'S THE ORB OF AGAMOTTO.

WHATEVER. I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE IT. SOME KOOK CALLED _MISTER M_ IS TRYING TO TAP INTO THE NUCLEAR REACTOR. MUST BE A MUTANT.

Strange can't help but pick on Iron Man a bit more, his ire up after being teased.

IS THERE A REASON _YOU_ CAN'T HELP? HAVING THE SUIT OILED TODAY?

VERY FUNNY. I'M A LITTLE BUSY RIGHT NOW. IN SHANGHAI. GOT THE REST OF THE TEAM HERE. AND I'D SEND THE HULK, BUT HE'S GOT THIS _THING_ AGAINST RADIATION. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS.

Stephen regards the text message silently before answering. He tells himself that he has nothing to prove to these people, these larger-than-life heroes who frequently grace the front pages of the newspaper with scenes equally compassionate and destructive. He tells himself that he has his _own_ agenda of keeping watch over the world, which includes manipulations of time and space so complex that to experience them first hand would make Tony Stark need iron _diapers_. Where were the Avengers during the _Dormammu_ incident, after all? Strange tells himself that he's a _consultant._ A _consulting_ Avenger who doesn't get mixed up in the politics and chaos the ragtag group inculcates. The doctor tells himself that he's still learning, and he shouldn't push himself too far just yet.

On the other hand, it is clear that his reputation as a valuable member of the elite Avengers group is on the line. And he can't resist Stark's challenge. He has worked for over a year in near-solitude, securely tucked away in his fortress on Bleecker Street. Perhaps it is time to flex his muscles a bit, as well as demonstrate his ability to be something he would have been offended to be labeled during his medical career: a team player.

His hands shake more from excitement than his past injury as he texts a response:

I'LL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES.

* * *

He barely has time to change. There are too many thoughts whirling through Strange's mind as he runs his hands over his standard blue suit. New spells mix with recipes mix with memories of past foes. Despite his extensive fieldwork over the past year, and numerous dangerous situations, Stephen cannot help but feel anxious. Every job is different—every situation requiring a completely different set of tools, some lodged away in his photographic memory, some in the ever-expanding array of magical objects in his possession.

 _Sling ring. Check. Eye of Agamotto. Check._

He has already begun turning the dial on one of the portals of the Sanctum when he hears a decidedly irate _swish swish swish_ behind him.

The doctor turns around, feeling his eyes grow wide.

"Wow. I really must be scattered today. Cloak—I'm… I'm so sorry!"

The cloak hangs, shimmering in full burgundy glory, directly in front of him. If it had arms, it would be crossing them.

Dr. Strange bites his lip, realizing the fabric is going to need some sincere acts of contrition on its behalf later, but now he doesn't have the time.

"Shall we…?"

Reluctantly, the cloak drifts towards him, securely fastening its collar around his neck (perhaps a bit more snug than usual) and flutters past his knees, enclosing itself around him in a half-circle. The act is familiar, comforting.

They are ready. Strange turns the knob until it hits the spot he was searching for: a nuclear plant in Nebraska. A light dusting of snow coats a wide-open field as the sun sinks in a hazy orange blaze across the horizon. The cloak bristles, and, together, they leap through the portal.

* * *

By the time they reach the Cooper Plant, twenty-three miles south of Nebraska City, it is dark outside and stars contrast against a black sky. Strange notes that the place has been evacuated due to the assortment of military vehicles strategically positioned around the facility and the whine of sirens ringing through the air, spotlights positioned on its entrance. He gages the mood—pensive and scared. Scared as hell.

He has no idea what to expect.

Stark must have called ahead for him because the sorcerer is allowed in without fuss, past gates and barbed wire and padlocks that are so thick the Hulk might sprain his wrists trying to break through.

The entryway beckons, and Strange steps inside. He notes the pervading _hum_ of the plant that surrounds them, the blinking lights, and smell of ozone. Stephen continues, not entirely sure where he is going, but allowing his intuition to guide him towards the source of the drone, knowing that this will also be where the mysterious Mister M awaits them.

"What if his name is actually _Mister Mister_?" Strange says to himself, and the cloak ruffles along his back. He jerks momentarily, having forgotten the other being was there. It is the _second_ time that Strange has forgotten about the cloak, and it makes him bow his head with guilt.

"We okay?" the doctor whispers to it.

The cloak flutters noiselessly against him in response, and the air grows colder around them as they walk through an increasing amount of thick grey doors that have crumpled, as if they were made of cardboard and not lead. Red WARNING signs painted on the front of them have eerily melted. Stephen swallows and thinks: _At least I'm not alone._

They approach the main compartment of the plant, the closest they dare step to the core without risking radiation exposure. Strange mumbles a spell, barely audible, and a pale green glow surrounds his body from the Eye of Agamotto. He doesn't think the protection spell can protect against radiation, but it couldn't hurt.

A long metal platform awaits them, hanging suspended. Although relatively high up, Strange and his magical overgarment stand at the base of an immense dome-like containment structure. Through the green glow of the force field that protects them, the doctor can just make out the figure of a man standing at the opposite end of the platform.

The man is lost in shadow, and it takes Strange a moment to realize that his back is to them. The figure wears a black fedora with a silver band, a black blazer and black pants.

 _Well, at least I approve of his wardrobe…_

"Dr. Strange, I presume?" comes a slightly accented voice that is soft yet echoes through the voluminous dome.

"You presume correctly, Mister M," Stephen says, his senses keen, his defenses sharp. He's prepared for any attack, any maneuver. He breathes out with sudden relief to realize that he caught the villain _in the process_ of breaking into the radiated area, and he hasn't done too much damage. Good thing Stark texted him when he did.

Strange begins walking at a snail's pace down the long corridor, his boots clanking on the meshed metal, causing him to cringe. He edges closer to the figure in the hat, the other man's back still to him.

"Now, I would much rather get to know you _somewhere quiet_ rather than in this noisy facility," the doctor says, calm voice masking the fear he feels. Like speaking to a frightened animal, he continues: "Let's step outside. You can tell me what you want, and I can try to help."

Then the other man presses against the door to the reactor, but instead of gruffly pushing it aside, his hand _goes through it_ , as if the metal were nothing more than silk. Stephen stops dead in his tracks; the cloak quavers. And as easily as Mister M places his hand through the door, he brings it back out again and leisurely faces them, hips turning and body following suit. His fedora tilts downwards, throwing a shadow across half of his moon-pale face, like a character in black and white from a film noir of the 1930's.

The villain grins, his voice barely above a whisper. "I got what I wanted ten minutes ago."

At this, the lights in the entire facility go out, and Strange and the cloak are thrown into darkness. The drone of the machinery ceases immediately, and a shudder runs through the plant, causing Stephen to grasp the railings beside him for support.

 _This isn't possible…_

The cloak sweeps up behind him, creating a third leg to stabilize its chosen. Muttering a spell, the Eye around his neck dims its force field, instead sending quick green pulses throughout the dome, searching for Mister M.

Strange stops the Eye's frantic search with a wave of his hand when a piercingly bright light appears at the end of the corridor, cupped in the left hand of his adversary. The man hadn't moved an inch from before. Now he huddles over the light in his paw, eyes gleaming, feverish with devotion.

 _What kind of being are you?_

Stephen swallows back a sick feeling as he steps closer to the man and the tiny sphere of immense energy he carries. And when Mister M speaks, his voice trembles with that power.

"There is a famous painting in the town of my birthplace, Ghent. It is called 'The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb,' and in it, the lamb is the focus. Its head is surrounded by spikes of light; the halo of a sun shines above it. No wonder all the people in the painting and in real life cannot take their eyes off it. It is too pure, too dazzling, and almost too calm as it pours out its blood into a golden chalice. One red stream. I imagine that is what you must feel like, Dr. Strange. You are mesmerized and horrified. Because I feel as if I'm holding that lamb in the palm of my hand. It is so bright and beautiful and _scorching_. And now it will become part of me."

The light spreads throughout his hand, as if soaking into his skin. Stephen squints, able to make out each vein, glowing unnaturally red in the mutant's hands, before the light fades away, plunging them into darkness once more.

Dr. Strange moves quickly, like a silhouette, emitting a burst of green light from the Eye, but Mister M blocks if deftly, dissolving through the floor of the platform only to pop back up seconds later. But Strange persists, and his second energy pulse hits its target. The mutant flies backwards, striking the door to the reactor with a sickening _crack_ before bouncing back up and hurling himself at the sorcerer.

The cloak flits left and right, dragging Strange back by the heels to prevent a blow to his abdomen. Mister M groans as another powerful burst of energy from one of Stephen's spells sends him spinning along the platform.

Grimacing, the mutant stands stiffly, his face glowing a sickly green from the Eye's light. "You know," he says, "I could kill you this very moment if I wanted to." At this, his body once again melts into metal beneath him, disappearing from view.

Dr. Strange breathes heavily and urges the cloak upwards. Together, they hover in the air, searching the facility for any trace of the villain.

"But I'm just too fun, right?" Strange calls, his voice echoing. "Tell me the truth. I'm stronger than you expected, Mister M."

"Call me Absolon."

Stephen does not see the arm appear through the metal mesh directly beneath him until it is too late. A hand grabs the tip of the cloak and tugs it violently downwards. Off balance, Stephen is jerked back.

 _Great…_

Strange pivots the Eye to the floor of the platform, but before he can find his target, a wave of crackling electricity from his opponent slams into him with such force that he is knocked off the platform, crashing against the side of the dome.

The doctor's sight dims around the edges. He feels the sensation of falling, but it is quickly replaced by floating. _How is that possible?_ His fuzzy mind struggles to formulate rational thoughts. It is not until he feels the cold metal mesh of the corridor against his side as he is gently set down that he realizes that it is the cloak.

 _It saved me again…_

"Not that… I'm keeping track," the doctor murmurs to his friend. "But we seem… to be in the middle of a contest…called 'How Many Times Can I Save Your Life…"

The cloak responds by running its edges along his arms, tapping him lightly, as if to comfort and rouse him simultaneously. Dr. Strange wants to oblige it, but his temples still pound mercilessly, and he does not seem to have complete control of his legs. The cloak continues coaxing him up, supporting his arms as Stephen groans, forcing himself into a sitting position.

But just as his vision clears, a sudden tightness around his throat sends Strange to his knees, choking noises escaping his mouth.

 _Mister M._

The cloak soundlessly disengages from his body and hurls itself at the figure standing fifteen feet in front of them. With a flick of his wrist, the mutant sends the cloak zooming away, pressed up against the wall of the dome by some invisible hand. Stephen wants to cry out to it, but his eyes are watering, and he can't breathe. Just as he can feel his sight darkening permanently, the pressure around his throat vanishes, and the doctor collapses to the floor. Gasping gratefully for air, filling his starved lungs, he is vaguely aware of the metal clasp around his neck breaking.

When he has the strength to look up, he sees Mister M holding the Eye of Agamotto. The villain flicks the brim of his fedora up to examine the relic with a glow emanating from one of his palms.

"Pretty little thing," he says before pocketing it. Then he bends down, whispering into Stephen's ear. "Shall we go outside now?"

Mister M holds the weakened doctor's arm in a vice-like grip, and they are flying away. Dr. Strange is only able to view a flash of crimson that must be the cloak before he feels a _chill_ pass through him, like stepping through a waterfall. Suddenly, the hold on his arm is released, and Stephen tumbles onto the cold hard ground.

Gritting his teeth with pain, the sorcerer gets to his knees shakily then stands. He immediately feels vulnerable without the cloak, incomplete. Mister M also stands several feet away, observing him. They are outside in a field, several hundred feet from the power plant. If not for the moonlight glinting off the frosted tips of grass, Stephen would not be able to see anything. Gone is the glow from the plant.

 _How many people are without power in this state?_ Stephen wonders. _How many hospitals?_

"I'm not completely heartless," says Mister M. "I stored back-up supplies for the hospitals, schools, and shelters. They will be fine until an alternative energy is established."

Strange's voice is rough from the mutant's attack on his throat. His tone matches his mood: livid. "So you can read my mind as well."

Mister M just smiles.

 _Well, read_ _THIS, jerk—_

Flames pour from Mister M's fingertips. Stephen counters with a spell, looping his sling ring in golden circles. Both man and mutant break off then lash out again, their attacks timed perfectly, a deadly dance beneath a canopy of glittering stars. Whereas Mister M seems to grow more powerful as the fighting continues, Strange's strength is waning. Every spell he uses Mister M counters with a wave of orange fire even more powerful than the last. Stephen finds himself on his knees once more, his rapid breaths like puffs of white smoke in the frigid night.

His adversary stands bold, triumphant.

"Radiation is one thing. But fire is so much purer, don't you think? Goodbye, Dr. Strange."

Stephen flinches as a wall of fire races towards him. In that split second before the flames reach him, Dr. Stephen Strange reflects on his life, and flashes of things he loved pass through his thoughts: successful surgeries, time spent in meditation, favorite piano pieces of the Romantic period, roasted kale, his family, the Ancient One, Christine, Wong, and one magical piece of red fabric he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye—

"Cloak?"

The cloak swoops in front of him at the last second, covering Dr. Strange completely like a red shield as the fire pours into it. Stephen flinches, shielding his face instinctively, heat lapping in waves on either side of him, threatening to singe his beard. On contact, the cloak shivers, flapping against itself wildly to put out the flames as they dissipate.

"CLOAK!" Stephen looks up, uncertain what to do.

A shudder runs through it before it collapses, smoking, into the doctor's arms.

"No…" the choked exclamation escapes from Stephen's throat before his mind has the chance to process what happened. Sweat stings his eyes as he rises from a crouched position and swiftly cradles the cloak to his chest. He lays the cloak gently on the ground before looking up at Mister M.

But the villain is gone.

Strange delicately runs his fingers over the smooth velvety fabric, burnt in patches—and blackened. He places thumb to forefinger through at least three holes in the red cloth. The cloak doesn't even rustle in response.

"No, dammit! NO!"

Anger gives way to grief, which gives way to a spell. He utters it quickly, consonants flicking off his tongue like an often-recited poem. His shaking feeble hands stretch outwards, and a golden magic pours over the charred fabric like honey. The sorcerer continues, spurred on, despite his growing weakness, with equal parts desperation and hope. _The spell_ will _work. It_ has _to work._

As the amber light glows brighter, it blinds Dr. Strange. He sinks backwards, hands in front of his eyes to shield them. And when he removes them, his mouth drops open in wonder to view the cloak, glowing with a faint golden shimmer, hovering in the air, as good as brand new.

"You know that contest I mentioned earlier?" Stephen mutters weakly, voice breaking. "Well, you're _definitely_ winning."

Then the cloak rushes towards him, circling his body, flying upwards and dropping low. Stephen finds himself chuckling despite how cold and tired and defeated he feels. He tells himself: _But both of you are okay. That's what matters._

"Stark will _not_ be happy. How am I gonna find this guy?"

The cloak pauses in its merriment and swings up one side of its cape, as if to say: _Wait a sec._ From the folds of its robes, it produces one black fedora with a silver band.

Strange's jaw drops open for the second time that night.

"You stole his _hat_?"

The cloak's collar bobs up and down.

"How the heck did you do _that_?!"

The cloak wavers in the air, its cloth rustling, and it produces a second object that falls right into the sorcerer's hands, gleaming gold…

The Eye of Agamotto.

"Okay, that takes the cake," says Strange as he places the medallion with the broken clasp inside his blue tunic. "I'm not sure I'm even _needed_ anymore on these Avengers missions." He pokes the fabric. "I should just send you. I can picture the newspaper headline now: 'Stylish Shield and Pickpocket Extraordinaire.'"

The cloak ripples with pleasure. Strange is dubious that he'll be able to find Mister M with only a beloved hat for a clue, but it's a start.

As Dr. Strange stands, the cloak attaches itself to him, fluttering behind his back in the cold breeze.

"You sure you're okay?" Stephen asks, head cocked to one side. He pulls one edge of the cloak closer to him, bunching it up in one hand as if he never wants to let it go. The cloak tugs away from his grip teasingly. "I just… I almost lost you."

When he leans back on his heels, the cloak supports him, rubbing along his back soothingly, as if to say: _But you didn't._ They share a moment of calm silence.

Dr. Strange stirs. "Shall we take the long way home?"

Soundlessly, the cloak lifts him in the air, gaining speed and height until they are flying just beneath the wisps of clouds, soaring through the star-studded sky back to New York.

 **A/N:** Just for the record, I'm not a scientist and have no _clue_ how nuclear reactors work, so apologies if I made some major errors there.

I felt like this chapter was a lesson for Strange in not getting what he _wants_ (or what he expects) but rather being reminded of all that he _has_. He's testing the waters and trying to help out the Avengers, but also learning that his powers are directly affected by his physical limitations. Anyways, I was in the action-y mood, so thank you for indulging my need to have some fighting interspersed with the fluff.

Next chapter features Sick!Stephen for all you cats who enjoy sickfics.

Continual hugs and virtual hot chocolate (with extra marshmallows) for my awesomely splendiferous followers and reviewers. In the immortal words of Misha Collins, "It warms the cockles of my heart." Your reviews truly do just that, readers. Thank you!

 **TheWayfaringStra:** Thanks for reading! Haha—yesssh, I love the friendship feels too. Haha What's not to love about a man and his cloak?

 **The Magic Within:** Aww shucks! Your reviews are too kind, and I appreciate how detailed and constructive they are. I'm so glad that I made your day with the last chapter! Hope you liked this one. I'm also glad that you like my interpretation of the cloak. I don't want to make it _too_ human, but striking a balance is important.

 **PinkChaos:** Thanks for reviewing! I'm glad you're enjoying the Stephen and cloak fluffiness as much as I am.

 **Honey:** Thank you for reading! I've been so focused on writing this fic that I stopped thinking about "Far Away From Nowhere" and "Rush of Blood," but with an upcoming vacation, I'll (hopefully) have more time to update those stories.

~Ista


	9. Fever

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 9: Fever**

 **Warning:** Drowning, death of a family member

The cloak believes there is a duck in Dr. Strange's bedchamber.

Then again, the cloak can't be sure. It has been several years since it observed a live duck in its natural habitat and heard its precise avian call. However, the particular nasal resonance and timbre emanating from Stephen's bedchamber suggests _some_ kind of waterfowl has taken up residence within.

 _Honnnnnkkkkkk!_

Or maybe it's a goose.

"It's just influenza." Stephen's muffled voice drifts through the hallway from his bedroom. "I'm not going to a hospital for a case of the _flu_."

The cloak flutters like an angel's wing towards the entrance to the doctor's room, barely tipping the brim of its collar past its doorframe. It waits, inquisitive, an investigator.

"…. No, I'm NOT coming in to work!"

 _Work?_ The cloak thinks: _What work?_ Dr. Strange does not have "work" the way that the cloak believes most average people have "work"—breeding bovines, aligning spines, fitting gaskets, and advising companies on the purchase of _soft wares_ , whatever _those_ are. Stephen _used_ to be a surgeon—and a supremely gifted one at that—but Stephen has not been a medical doctor for nearly two years. Now he is a conjurer, a curator of the magical arts, and protector of the world, along with other humans who have extraordinary abilities.

"I don't appreciate your _snark_ , Stark."

Strange clears his throat, and it sounds as harsh and grating as the Vitamix blender he is so obsessed with. The cloak will never understand the point of almond butter.

" _No,_ Stark. I can't _magic_ my way out of a virus. Ha. Ha. By the way, Lord Byron called, and he wants his _narcissism_ back. Good. Day."

A heavy sigh follows the truncated conversation, and the cloak assumes that it's relatively safe to enter Strange's bedchamber.

It flits across the Isfahan carpet and into the sparsely decorated room to its chosen's bedside, brushing against the embroidered chair that has become its home in the evening whilst Stephen sleeps.

Pale morning light reflects across the man's face from the room's broad windows as the cloak closely examines him. It's not reassured by what it finds.

His grey eyes are watery and the eyelids around them puffy and red. Sweat speckles his sallow face, dark stubble contrasting with the ashen sheen of his skin. His hair is messy and sticks up wildly in the back. Stephen's beryl-colored robe hangs open at his chest, and he draws it closed hastily when he notices the overgarment appear.

"M-morning," Strange offers casually. The cloak notices the way the sorcerer's teeth chatter and the slight vibrations of the man's body underneath the robe and duvet, even though he is doing his best to hide them.

Stephen bites his lip, looking down at the cellphone in his lap. "Not feeling well enough to deal with the Iron Giant-Ego today, my friend."

The cloak drifts side to side in an agitated fashion, hoping to convey its concern at the doctor's wellbeing.

Strange picks up on its body language immediately and waves his hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Really. It's just…."

When the doctor stops, he releases a small puff of air, and suddenly his eyes are more watery than before, and his face scrunches inwards, his lips sagging. The cloak flickers, temporarily taken-aback because _something_ within the man's eyes reflects an indescribable emotion that the scarlet fabric cannot pinpoint. Is it _fear?_ _Anger?_ Or something else entirely? The crimson cloth wishes it could read its chosen's mind on a whim, but it is still learning about the complexity of human thoughts and emotions, as well as the particular quirks of its master.

Strange swallows and attempts a smile, but it's unconvincing.

"Just a hard day…"

The doctor insists that he is going to sleep for a few more hours and doesn't need anything. Reluctantly, the cloak leaves him, hoping Stephen can get some rest.

* * *

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO DO? _POISON_ ME?!"

The cloak _thumps_ against a particularly sturdy armoire in its haste to see what all the fuss is about, gliding down the hallway towards Stephen's bedchamber. The doctor has not left his room in nearly four hours—a substantially long time considering Strange's usually restless temperament.

"Restless" being a mild way of putting it.

The cloak was getting a bit stir-crazy too. It spent a full hour perched on a bronze hat rack and watching people walk by on the street below. Apparently, sarcoline boots are _in_ this season.

Therefore, the cloak makes haste in reaching Stephen's bedchamber, ready to whip into action and prepared to give substantial rug-burn to whichever vicious foe is bent on poisoning its master. _Who could it be?_ the cloak wonders. Loki? Xandu? Umar? Or possibly, it's a non-mononymous villain with more than just a two-syllable name.

The cloak should be so lucky.

Consequently, the overgarment is shocked when it hovers into Strange's room only to see Wong at his bedside, stooped over the pale and prostrate doctor with something that looks like a coffee mug in his hands and an unimpressed look on his face.

"It's not _poison._ It's _tea_ ," Wong says flatly, acknowledging the cloak with a nod.

Stephen scowls, his face contorting.

Wong waits for a beat, expecting a response from the doctor. When there is none, he says, "You know—peppermint, rooibos, chamomile...oolong—"

"I _know_ what _tea_ is!" Strange hisses. "But that—whatever _that_ is—is _disgusting!"_

Wong looks down at dark brown liquid in the cup. The cloak notices steam rising up from the warm mug—a fragrant aroma of ginger and something fruity…lemon?

"It is my specialty for sickness—it helps with fever—"

"My _fever_ is not that high," Strange snaps and crosses his arms. "I will not be drinking any of _that,_ thank you."

Wong just stares at Stephen and blinks. The cloak trembles slightly, waiting to see what the other man will do.

Strange throws Wong's gaze back at him until he realizes that his friend is trying to prove a point, and his frown deepens, causing a vein to appear on his forehead.

"Don't look at me like I'm a child!" he chides with contempt.

Wong just mutters, as unflappable as ever: "If the shoe fits, Strange…"

The man exits, and the cloak decides to follow after Wong, slinking back when Stephen turns his head the other way. The magical fabric is confused by this exchange. Why would Stephen reject his companion's help? Even if the drink's taste wasn't pleasant, at least he could be civil towards Wong.

"He's too proud," Wong whispers once they're out in the hallway. The cloak shuffles closer to the man. Wong's expression shows more frustration than it did when he was by Stephen's bedside, and the cloak realizes that the other man was keeping his emotions in check to help the doctor.

"Too proud to accept help. Or too stubborn. Or too stupid." Wong shrugs. "Possibly all three."

Wong looks down at his mug of tea again, thinking, and the cloak quavers beside him, not knowing what to do.

"What do you think?" Wong murmurs suddenly, his eyes bright. "You pin him down, I force open his mouth—he might swallow a few more ounces of it…" Wong's voice fades away. "I know—it's not the best plan." His face falls slightly, finally showing the man's real emotions; the cloak reads desperation and worry in Wong's eyes.

So it reaches out a tassel and pats Wong on the shoulder.

Wong grunts at the contact and straightens up. "Just watch him, cloak. Make sure he's all right."

Mug in hand, the housekeeper walks away.

* * *

As the day goes by, Dr. Strange gets worse.

A dry, persistent cough racks Stephen's slender frame and rattles the sturdy bed in which he tosses and turns. The cloak lingers by his doorway, staying partially hidden, afraid that Strange will become angry with it if it came too close or hovered too near.

So it waits, agonizing over each hour that Stephen drifts between sleeping and waking, body shivering, teeth-chattering like ice clinking in a glass. It unnerves the cloak and also makes it wish that it could do more for its chosen.

Finally, the sound of quiet voices conspiring at the base of the stairs—one male, one female—awakes the cloak from its reverie. Wong must have called Christine Palmer to check on Stephen. Sure enough, as soon as the cloak ducks into the hallway, it glimpses the nurse heading its way. She is wearing a long light blue coat and brown boots, her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Her hazel eyes are clear and determined.

The cloak quivers with excitement and relief. At last—Strange will be looked after.

"Good afternoon." Christine greets the cloak warmly with a shy smile. It knows that the nurse is still getting used to Strange's profession, even though a few years have gone by since he became a sorcerer. The Sanctum's wonders can still be overwhelming to the cloak on occasion—so it understands Christine's awkwardness in addressing a magical piece of fabric.

She steps into the musty bedchamber, the cloak wobbling at her heels. "Stephen?" Palmer calls softly, blinking in the dim light.

Strange stirs, groaning, and pushing his comforter off his chest with a claw of a hand, but he doesn't wake.

She approaches his bed, leaning over. The cloak ripples with envy as she places her palm on his forehead. Christine frowns at the contact.

"He's a furnace," she says to the cloak.

Stephen's eyes flash open, and crimson cloth reads a hint of mortification before the doctor utters a string of meaningful syllables, an incantation.

"Stephen—" Palmer begins, but the sides of her coat whip backwards by a harsh wind, as if someone had left the windows open during a hurricane. The cloak fluctuates against the supernatural breeze and hastens to the other side of Stephen's bed to be out of his aim. His eyes are glinting grey stones. The nurse's eyes connect with Strange's—a brief moment of recognition—and then gold sparks are flying from the doctor's fingertips, and Christine is floating backwards to the hallway, frozen in place by invisible arms. She lets out a shriek and his bedchamber door slams in her face.

All is calm in the bedroom, as if Palmer was never there.

The cloak scrambles from behind the bed, pausing to observe Stephen (a smug look on his wan face) before rushing to the door.

Hurried footsteps and a lower voice outside—Wong! Christine is whispering with the martial arts expert again. The doorknob turns and jams. Strange has conveniently locked it.

"Oh, _c'mon,_ Stephen!" Christine's voice is exasperated. Her words are followed by muffled pounding on the door. "Let me _in!_ "

"What did you expect?" Strange retorts, his voice more gravelly and weaker than before. He coughs violently into his elbow.

Then a call from Christine: "I expected you to be _less_ dramatic!"

Stephen chuckles only to succumb to another dry coughing fit. He lunges for a tissue and spits into it, moaning. Sweat is shining on his brow again.

"Recall one of the oldest maxims in the medical profession," Stephen says loudly once he recovers from coughing. "Doctors make the worst patients."

"So don't be a cliché!" Palmer's cry is muted from the barrier between them. "Admit that you're sick and need help."

"I feel just fine," insists Strange, his voice as gruff as a grizzly bear.

"Symptoms of influenza," Palmer persists. "Fever over 100.4, aching muscles, chills and sweats, headache, cough, fatigue, weakness, nasal congestion, and a sore throat. Tell me you don't have all of those symptoms—"

"NOT TODAY!" the doctor cries, his voice booming out, his eyes glowing.

Everything goes quiet. Not even the cloak makes a sound, hanging mid-air motionlessly.

"Don't mess with me today," Stephen mutters, and without acknowledging the cloak (so unlike him) he curls into a ball on his left side and closes his eyes.

The cloak pauses for a moment and then whirls around to face the door again. A hushed conversation starts back up on the other side, but it can't make out what Wong or Christine are saying. Then, double-checking that Strange isn't paying any attention, the cloak wraps part of its cape around the doorknob and twists.

No effect. It is locked in with Dr. Strange.

* * *

At 8 P.M., Dr. Strange begins to scream.

What starts out as mumbling gibberish turns into semi-coherent sentences. At first, the cloak thinks that Stephen is merely dreaming and talking in his sleep, but soon the sentences take a darker twist. The cloak, flittering up and down Strange's bedside, only manages to understand random phrases here and there:

"No….. _Donna_ …I can't see… too _dark…_ come back. Don't go…"

Moonlight spills upon his bed, illuminating his colorless face. Then Stephen's eyes flick open and, wildly, he thrashes in his bed. The regular speech turns to shouts, his mouth curled downwards in an expression of absolute despair.

"DONNA! DON'T GO! DONNA! _DONNA!"_

The cloak swings around to grab his arm, to support him, to comfort him, but the doctor doesn't seem to notice its presence. His screams continue, one tortured cry after another, until the cloak hears Christine and Wong shouting for Strange on the other side of the door. Their pounding is more frantic this time.

"Donna…" he says weakly, swallowing. Tears are streaming down his face. The cloak presses against his back, soothing, trying to calm the agitated man, but Stephen ignores it and instead gets to his feet and stumbles. The cloak just manages to whisk to the right side of the bed in time to partially catch his fall, but his ankle twists in the jumble of bare limbs and scarlet fabric. Strange moans as the cloak sets him gently down on the carpeted floor. It pats his face (skin sticky and glaringly hot) but he doesn't stir.

And that's when the cloak realizes it has had enough.

Smoothly, it pulsates across the room in an instant, thumping heavily against the wooden door as a warning to the sorcerer's friends outside. Hopefully, they will take the hint and steer clear. Gauging the strength of the entrance, its lock, and the magic that holds it strong, the cloak back tracks, shifting to a horizontal position, collar facing the door. Then it surges forward, like a wine-colored torpedo, bursting the door open with one solid _crash!_

Dazed, the cloak shakes itself off. Wood splinters fall like snowflakes from its cape. Wong and Christine stand in the hallway, both of their mouths hanging open in shock. It's the kind of picture that Stephen would have gladly paid money to see if he was in his right mind.

Wong comes to his senses faster than Christine. He sidles up to the cloak, eyeing it along with the destruction all around them.

"I didn't know you could do that," he says in a low tone. He nods, as if to himself, and surveys the damage. "Good to know."

"Stephen!" Palmer is already inside the doctor's bedchamber, picking her way through the shards of wood, and rushing to the man on the floor. "Wong!" she cries seconds later.

Wong races through the entrance to join her. The cloak lingers in the destroyed entryway, still dazed. It watches as the two quickly lift Stephen's limp body onto his bed. Palmer produces a medicine bottle from her coat pocket, and when Strange rouses at their touch, she helps him swallow a few pills without protest.

"You do a great job of scaring the crap out of us on a regular basis," Christine says eventually as she checks Stephen's vitals. "You know that, right?"

Stephen is about to say something when Palmer shoves a thermometer in his mouth.

"Fluids," she says briskly, more command than suggestion. "Then sleep and more fluids." The thermometer beeps, and she removes it. "101. I think your fever has broken, thanks to the medicine."

Wong scrambles out of the bedchamber and returns minutes later with another cup of steaming tea, bringing it up to the doctor's nose. Christine helps prop him up with pillows, and this time Strange drinks the tea silently, gratefully. Wong watches while standing over him, arms crossed, undeniably pleased.

Meanwhile, the cloak still idles by the shattered door, taking everything in. It slides up and down the splintered wood of the doorframe compulsively, nervously. It doesn't know whether to be relieved or terrified or angry at its chosen for so blatantly refusing treatment and endangering his own life. Strange can be reckless, but doesn't the man realize how much he hurts his friends in the process?

"Cloak…?" Strange's raspy voice is barely above a wave lapping on a shore. The three humans look in the cloak's direction, and it oscillates away, billowing down the hallway at a medium pace.

It finds a rarely-used closet and burrows its way inside, finding peace in the darkness and old coats and smell of dust. Anything to get away from the image of Stephen on the floor, unmoving and trapped while the cloak hovered nearby, absolutely helpless.

 _It is a fickle thing…_

The cloak wonders about the Ancient One's description of it for a moment.

 _Maybe I am…_

It certainly is quite useless most of the time.

Before the cloak can grovel in its own self-deprecation any longer, the door to the closet whips open. Wong is staring at it, his expression as mild and unemotional as ever.

"I know all your favorite hiding places."

Wong walks with the cloak back to the doctor's bedchamber, insisting that Stephen called for it. Halfway there, Wong reaches for his back pocket where his cellphone is buzzing away. He looks at the caller and groans peevishly before denying the call.

"Tony Stark has been trying to contact me all day after Stephen hung up on him this morning."

The cloak ruffles quizzically. Why would Stark be trying to get hold of _Wong?_

"It's Stephen's birthday in a couple of days, and apparently the Avengers want to throw him some kind of surprise party."

 _Birthday?_ The cloak had almost forgotten! Last year, Wong baked Stephen an enormous Bavarian chocolate cake. Hopefully Stephen will be well enough to celebrate his birthday this year. And knowing how much the sorcerer _loathes_ surprise parties would make the event Stark is planning unmissable for the housekeeper and overgarment.

Wong must have picked up on the cloak's eagerness because he responds: "Yeah, I can't wait to see the look on his face. He's gonna _kill_ Stark."

As the pair enter the sorcerer's room, Strange is commenting on the peculiarity of having no door—perhaps he only just realized it was missing.

"When did that happen?" he asks, bewildered.

Palmer says, "When you idiotically locked yourself in your own room and the cloak had to break it open and rescue you."

"Typical," Wong says dryly.

The cloak flutters towards Strange warily, uncertain in its movements. Stephen perks up at the sight of it. Dark circles rest under his eyes, but his face has a little more color than before. In the light of his bedside lamp that Wong switches on, Strange reaches out a hand. The cloak examines it cautiously.

"I'm sorry," its chosen whispers, serious. "Will you forgive me… for my actions?"

The cloak drifts down to Strange's bed like a sigh and unfolds itself in his lap like a blanket, wrapping around one of his arms to give him a solid handshake. Stephen returns the gesture and relaxes back against his pillows, shivering slightly.

"Rest," repeats Palmer again, an edge in her voice this time. "Good night, Stephen."

"G'night, Christine," Strange mutters sleepily, and Wong turns off his bedside lamp with a _click._ "G'night, Wong."

"Good night, Stephen," Wong says. "Good night, Cloak."

Christine begins: "G'night, Cloa—"

"I just want to make the comment," Wong interrupts, "that what we're doing right now is totally unnecessary."

Christine chuckles as the two pick their way through the mess of wood splinters.

The glow from the hallway illuminates the pair's figures, and then that light eventually shuts off too, and the cloak is left alone with Stephen in the dark. The glow of moonlight drifts across his face, and he appears exhausted yet coherent.

"Cloak…"

The crimson fabric rustles at its chosen's voice, stirring to reassure him that it's still there.

"Do you know who Donna was?"

The cloak wiggles again, indicating a negative.

"She was my younger sister."

The cloak quirks up its collar. It wasn't aware that Strange had any siblings. Although, it wouldn't be completely surprising, because he has never said anything in the cloak's presence about his family.

"I had just started college in New York. Pre-med. For my nineteenth birthday, I went back home to Nebraska for a weekend. My family owned a farm. Donna was there. She was seventeen and couldn't wait to tell me about her plans for college… She wanted to be a vet. Loved animals. Almost as much as she loved Natalie Merchant." He smiles faintly then continues. "We decided to go swimming one evening. I'm not sure why. It was early November, after all, and freezing. But she wanted to go, and the lake was really close to our parents' farm. So we went.

"It was really crisp that night—and the stars were magnificent. Each one was so clear. We started in the shallows and then Donna wanted to swim farther out. I kept telling her it was dangerous, but she was a strong swimmer and wasn't worried. I chickened out and kept closer to the shore… I never even saw her go under. They say that people who are drowning usually don't make a sound, don't cry out for help. She might have splashed, but it was so dark… I didn't see her… and she was…gone."

In the dim light, Strange chokes back a sob. The cloak wraps itself tighter around him, comforting, aching for its chosen, at last realizing the significance of his melancholy this time of year, why Dr. Strange told Wong and the cloak that he had not celebrated his birthday in years after Wong presented him with the cake.

"We found her body the next morning. She must have gotten a cramp and… I searched for hours that night, trying to find her, calling out her name, freezing…" Stephen shivers, teeth chattering. "My parents told me it wasn't my fault. Everyone said it wasn't my fault. But, deep down, I knew it was. I still blame myself. And when I went back to New York, nothing was the same. Medical school wasn't the same. I didn't have the optimism I once had for the profession. I didn't look at patients with compassion any more in case I… in case I couldn't save them."

Tears pour down Stephen's cheeks, and the cloak brushes them away before settling back down.

"Donna died on this day 23 years ago. She would have been 40 this year. The last thing she ever said to me was: 'Stephen, isn't it beautiful?'"

Silence. Man and magical fabric lie quietly.

"Cloak…"

The cloak stirs again.

"You're not going away, are you?"

The cloak stretches itself out, pressing against his chest gently, as if to say: _Never._ _Now go to sleep._

And Stephen must understand and believe it, because in a few moments, he is sleeping peacefully at last. The cloak settles around its chosen and waits for the dawn.

 **A/N:** Extra kudos and virtual cupcakes to a **Guest** reviewer and **KarToon12** for inspiration for this ficlet in wanting a story about the anniversary of Donna's death, more cloak POV, and cloak interaction with Wong and Christine.

Confession—Chapter 8 took a lot out of me, which is probably why it took so long for Chapter 9 to get written and posted. But I put a lot of heart and soul into this one, and I thoroughly loved going back and re-discovering these characters.

I will still be updating this fic as often as I can (and when inspiration hits). But please be patient with me. And keep sending me ideas for one-shots! I have a lengthy list going of all kinds of ideas for ficlets reviewers send me, and it's fantastically helpful!

Next one-shot: It's Stephen to the rescue when the cloak becomes trapped in a hidden room of the Sanctum that holds many dark secrets.

I have been honored and amazed that so many people enjoy these little ficlets—your response continues to surprise me. Truly, **thank you.**

~Ista ^_^

 **A message from The Science of Deduction- SH:** They are working on uploading a new chapter but it might take longer due to college commitments. Please don't worry, readers! They haven't forgotten you! :)

 **The Magic Within:** _Re: your Chapter 6 review_ …Thank you again for your thorough and honest feedback! I like mixing up writing styles as often as I can or I get bored. So having Stephen take notes diary-style was another way to show his thought-processes. I'm glad that you enjoyed Stephen trying to cheer up the cloak and their anniversary celebration. Awww-I blush at your praise! Thank you muchly. Also, your wish is my command—Stephen will be proving himself by going BAMF in front of the Avengers in Chapter 11. _Re: your Chapter 7 review_ … I'm glad I could make your day again by responding! Yes, I was trying to think of a way to make the cloak more miserable and demonstrate its willingness to help Stephen no matter how uncomfortable it is—snow worked well for that. I'm also flattered that you enjoy my interpretation of the cloak. I channel a little bit of Data from Star Trek and a little bit of Spock, too, when I write it. I see it not _lacking_ in emotion, but it has a lot to learn about people and its inquisitiveness is always present in its interactions with Strange. I shall be responding to more of your reviews with future chapters! Thanks again for your thoughtfulness and detailed feedback!

 **Kat:** Yeah, I think it has to do with each individual author's preference for a name. The cool thing about fanfiction is you can do almost anything you want with the characters. I try to stay as true to the story as I can while also injecting a lot of my own interests and personality quirks. (And I secretly love the name Vincent). Haha But I will stick with "Cloak" for now. Thank you for the review!

 **Aria:** Thanks so much for your fantabulous review!

 **TheWayfaringStra:** I'm so glad you enjoy the fluffiness! I agree that the randomness of this relationship is one of the things I love most about it. The bond between a man and his cloak cannot be broken!


	10. Trapped

**A Fickle Thing**

 **Chapter 10: Trapped**

It's the cloak's favorite new game.

Hide and seek, of course.

What began as a relatively childlike method to help Stephen learn the secrets of the Sanctum (an eternally confounding and maze-like place) turned into a genuine pastime for both of them.

The Sanctorum has hundreds of corridors, secret passageways, closets, inner and outer chambers, dungeons, attics, breezeways, bathrooms, darkrooms, laboratories, and kitchens. Not to mention a ballroom and a padded cell. The assortment of spaces (each one with a history, each one unique) is enough to keep a piece of sentient fabric entertained for years. And even though it has called the Sanctum its home for too many years to count, the cloak still gets a thrill every time it discovers a new place.

The cloak does the hiding; Strange does the seeking.

"Should I count to 100 this time?" the doctor asks, his voice echoing through the hallway where he waits patiently.

Ecstatic, the cloak swoops behind him and ruffles his dark hair, giving an "affirmative."

Stephen smiles mischievously as the cloak spirals and spins above him.

"I just want to give you a better chance at winning this time. How long did it take me to find you yesterday? Not even thirty seconds?"

The ex-surgeon has become increasingly more knowledgeable about the Sanctum after several rounds of this game and has become almost as much an expert on its various secret tunnels and magic doors as Wong or the cloak. It also doesn't hurt that the doctor is becoming proficient at apparating.

The scarlet garment bristles at Stephen's insult as the man chuckles.

"No hard feelings, my friend. May the best navigator win."

With that, Strange turns on his heels, places his hands behind his back, and begins to count in a slow, even voice.

"One…two…three…"

If the cloak could _giggle_ , the sorcerer would have heard its bubbles of laughter echoing through the ancient halls of the Sanctum as the overgarment flits away.

The piece of mystic fabric soars through the house on Bleecker Street, delighting in the suspense of the game. Delicious—the pressure to find a suitable hiding place combined with the horror of being chased! The cloak shimmies delightfully as Stephen's counting begins to fade away, and it focuses on the task at hand. It flits indecisively from a chamber to an anteroom to a breakfast nook, dissatisfied with each new spot. All are too obvious—too open—or places Dr. Strange is acquainted with.

An attic, an atrium, a nursery.

No, no, and _definitely_ not.

A studio, a study, a laundry room. None of them are suitable or offer enough dark corners.

There has to be _somewhere_ that is new _and_ an ideal hiding place.

Footsteps directly beneath the cloak cause it to freeze and then scramble to the nearest closet. In its haste, the magical textile doesn't realize that it has never been in this particular wing of the Sanctum before. Fear of being caught causes the cloak to swiftly turn the door handle of the closet and slip inside, hovering, as if it's holding its breath. Cobwebs brush against its mantle in the pitch dark. Something rustles beside it, but the cloak dismisses the noise as rats scurrying about.

The cloak shivers, listening for its chosen's footfalls outside the door. They grow louder then pause. The cloak takes care not to move an inch, floating in mid-air. Just when the garment is about to give up and expects the closet door to swing open at any moment, Dr. Strange's footsteps start up again and grow weaker, walking away. The cloak twirls, overjoyed at the prospect of actually _winning_ this round. It will wait a good five to ten more minutes, just to make sure that Stephen isn't coming back, before it reveals itself. Even better—what if Strange gets lost and has to wait for its heroic habiliment to rescue him? If the cloak had hands, it would have rubbed them together with eagerness.

But before the cloak can vaingloriously bask in its accomplishment, there is another rustle in the darkness. This time, the sound is accompanied by a voice.

" _Why are you here_?"

The cloak whirls around, reaching out with tendrils of its fabric in the dark to meet nothingness.

" _You must leave before it finds you."_

The cloak quivers at the breathy utterance. Its accent is British, but the timbre of the sound is inhuman and unrecognizable.

" _It will keep you here forever…"_

The overgarment shudders. Is it a relic?

 _"…with the rest of us."_

A light flicks on, and the cloak finds itself in the middle of a medium-sized room, slightly larger than a walk-in closet. From the collection of dusty boxes and crates, it realizes the room has been used as a storage area for quite some time. Perhaps the space has been neglected due to its location in the Sanctum—it's certainly not a central point.

On most of the cloak's expeditions throughout the house on Bleecker Street, it would drift through empty corridors where the only life it encountered might be a stray mouse, but the ethereal voice had sparked a suspicion that is only confirmed with a lamp's sudden illumination:

The cloak is not alone.

Facing the door, it immediately takes in the sight of other objects uncomfortably close in proximity: on its left, a gramophone with a brass horn and a Tiffany lamp with blue and green stained glass resembling dripping vines. On its right is a black bowler hat and an antique doll with long brunette curls and ice-blue eyes that match her dress. The cloak instantly whirls to face the doll, assuming that it is the source of the uncanny voice who warned it. But the doll simply puts its tiny arms up defensively and shrinks behind the domed hat, trembling.

To the cloak's astonishment, the bowler rises up in the air to float at the cloak's level. The voice starts again, and this time the cloak realizes that the sound emanates from the hat.

 _"I said… LEAVE!"_

The cloak doesn't require further insistence and bustles its red fabric before whisking towards the closet door.

But the magical fabric never reaches the knob before something large looms over it, casting twisted shadows on the wooden floorboards as the Tiffany lamp flickers fearfully.

 _"Well, HELLO there."_

Another voice—but this one is deep and smooth as an oil slick. The cloak freezes and feels its very being quaver with fear as it slowly turns around to face…

 _"The armoire!"_ the bowler squeaks as the other trapped items scatter like ants.

A 19th century piece made from fine French walnut, the armoire looms over the cloak. An ornate finial spike poised between two arches presides over the casework below. Ripples of wood along its sides act like muscles, and its two cabinet doors are fixed with mirrors. Like eyes, the mirrors reflect the cloak's palpitating form in front of it. The armoire's dark countenance is almost gothic in style, and in the small space of the closet, the large piece of furniture is a threatening presence. The cloak wonders just how long the armoire had been "asleep" before realizing there was a newcomer, or had it been watching the cloak the entire time? The thought causes the magic fabric to shudder even harder.

 _"What do we have here? The Cloak of Levitation?"_ the armoire laughs deeply. _"This is an honor indeed."_

The cloak tears to the door, but the armoire is surprisingly quick for such a bulky object (or perhaps it's just had a lot of practice) and slides in front of the door, completely blocking the exit.

 _"We have not had company in many decades. I think you will be a suitable addition to my collection here."_

The cloak swoops back, joining the ranks of the other objects, who are visibly shaking now.

Another hearty laugh from the armoire. _"Yes—you can try to run. The others tried too. But you will soon learn there is no way out. And if you run from me, you will regret it. Hat—tell the cloak what happens if it tries to escape."_

The bowler hesitates then shuffles toward the cloak. Its voice is pleading now. _"The mirrors will open up, and you will be locked inside the armoire until His Excellency, Napoleon III, lets you out."_

The cloak can feel its fabric oscillating like a heart beating out of control. There are few things it detests more than being _trapped_. Not to mention being trapped by an oversized, overbearing hunk of tree.

The hat spins around, clearly vexed. _"Please go along with Napoleon. Victoria tried to run away, and the armoire locked her up for_ three years _."_

Nodding slowly, the dark-haired doll looks up at the cloak with mournful eyes that appear on the verge of shedding human tears.

 _"She hasn't been the same since…"_

Like a jaw slowly unhinging, the evil armoire opens one of its mirrors to reveal a black abyss that blocks out more and more of the cloak's vision. Its panic is palpable, an emotion that can only be encapsulated in a scream.

But the cloak can't scream.

Its velvety edges brush the back of the closet, and there is nowhere else to go.

 _"Music!"_ bellows the armoire. _"The 'Danse Macabre,' if you will."_

As if it has been kicked, the gramophone jerks into life, and with a needle-scratching intro, Saint-Saens begins to play. Clashing notes on a violin give way to a plucky orchestra that could be the soundtrack to an insidious carnival or demonic parade.

The armoire begins to move forward, its heavy posts smacking the floorboards and shaking the dust from lifeless boxes. It is gleeful and enthusiastic in its approach, as if it has done this a dozen times before.

Beyond the mirror, the cloak awaits darkness.

Until—a burst of energy breaks through the door behind Napoleon and strikes the gothic furniture as well, causing both entrance and armoire to explode into a million wooden shards. The other objects scatter.

Hovering weakly in shock, the cloak waits for the dust mites to settle before glimpsing the unmistakable form of its master, its chosen, its protected.

Stephen Strange stands frozen in the entrance to the walk-in closet, his fists raised like a boxer after casting the destructive spell. His chest is heaving slightly, his mouth set into a grim line, eyes sharp with what the cloak recognizes as worry. Glancing at the bits of door and armoire in his wake, the human finally sees the cloak. Immediately, he eases out of the fighting stance, his posture relaxes, and he pauses before smiling softly.

"Found you!"

The cloak immediately flutters to Stephen and falls into the man's arms, trembling uncontrollably.

* * *

Dr. Strange sees to it that the neglected artifacts are taken from the storage area and thus freed from years of imprisonment.

The Tiffany lamp and gramophone are placed in Dr. Strange's study. The lamp pours over the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald while the gramophone explores Stephen's record collection and delights in playing a wide range of classical, jazz, and soul albums.

Victoria finds a home in the Sanctum's nursery, and it isn't long before Christine is bringing over a visiting niece or nephew and some of their friends to play with the treasure trove of under-used toys when Dr. Strange is on an extended mission. Of course, Victoria is careful to hide her sentience from the newcomers until they have gone. When not in the company of other toys or children, she spends her free time writing a dissertation on global feminism, with a focus on reproduction and the family.

And the bowler hat—once Stephen learns of its ability to talk, he wastes no time in gifting it to Wong.

The scholar balks at the bowler at first, until Stephen protests: "Aren't you always complaining that your head gets cold in the winter?"

Reluctantly, Wong receives the hat, places it on its head, and glances in a mirror. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face.

"Not bad," says Wong, nodding with approval.

 _"Not_ bad _?"_ squeaks the hat. _"How about_ handsome _?"_

Wong's high-pitched scream at the talking hat sends Stephen into fits of laughter that take him the better part of an afternoon to recover from.

"Totally worth it," Strange tells the cloak later.

And even though Wong is apprehensive at first about owning an articulate headpiece, he keeps the bowler in his chamber and frequently wears it around the city.

Stephen never asks the cloak about what happened that day. Perhaps it would have been a futile pursuit to ask an object without a voice to explicate on any subject. Or perhaps Dr. Strange learned the terrible events that occurred in the storage room from the bowler hat.

Either way, Stephen refuses to let the cloak out of his sight in the weeks to come and insists on checking up on it when it leaves the room, even for just a moment.

And they never play hide and seek again.

"I found you for the last time," says Stephen one evening, removing the cloak from his shoulders and placing it on the armchair beside his bed. "But just remember—you found me first."

The cloak settles into the chair as Strange settles into his bed, and both man and mantle watch over each other as the waxing gibbous moon rises over Manhattan.

TBC

 **A/N:** Heyyyy everyone! Much love and cookie dough to those still reading this! It's been sooo long since I tackled these characters and looked at my notes for inspiration. Apologies to those who would have liked an update sooner than almost a year later. (nervous laughter) This chapter is dedicated to **Girl-of-Action,** who requested the cloak interacting with other relics eons ago. I hope this super short one-shot met at least a couple of your expectations without getting too _Beauty and the Beast_ or _The Brave Little Toaster_ on everybody. (For some reason, the word 'armoire' just seemed to _fit_ as a piece of evil furniture.)

*Antique furniture descriptions in this fic courtesy of "Inessa Stewart's" antiques website.

Next chapter: A BAMF Stephen fights alongside the Avengers!

 **PinkChaos:** Aww-thank you for your kind reviews! I'm glad you enjoy Stephen's interactions with the cloak. I also wish I had a sentient piece of fabric as a friend. Wouldn't that be awesome? A Christmas fic is a great idea! I'll have to think of something for the future.

 **Honey:** Ha! I love your nickname for the cloak—"Cloaky." I'll have to remember that one. Thanks for reviewing this fic and sticking with my other "Star Wars" one. I try to alternate between different chapter fics to focus on updating, but I will be working on another chapter for that one soon.


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